


out of the frying pan (and into the fire)

by SociiallyDiisoriiented



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-20
Updated: 2012-07-20
Packaged: 2017-11-10 08:45:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 40,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/464406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SociiallyDiisoriiented/pseuds/SociiallyDiisoriiented
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Arthur ever wanted to be was normal. As a child, he was a prodigy. As a teenager, he agnized that he was gay. As a young adult, he discovered a world where time stopped and peoples' most deeply buried secrets were his for the picking. Somewhere along the way, he recognized that his dream was a hard one to execute, even with a PASIV at his disposition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This piece is a collection of firsts: my first time participating in any sort of LJ community event, my first time writing for Inception, and my first time writing (and completing) a story of this length!!  
> This was written for i_reversebang, for ptoridactyl's piece the photo album (or a lifetime together)  
> Thanks to my two awesome betas citrinesunset and luvsanime02 (ff.net) for their support and hard work, and especially for tolerating my text-dump in their inbox and expecting them to get it done within a tight deadline. You guys saved me (and this fic)!
> 
> Additionally - how does one enter a picture here on AO3? When I did enter/insert picture, I got a bunch of weird coding that I didn't know how to read ... hence the pics showing up as url (which is a tad frustrating). If anyone could tip me off as to how insert pics in the body of text, that would be great! Thanks =) -- SOLVED! Thanks wldnst =)

The first time Arthur saw Eames was actually the second, when he had also first felt that stir of interest, of desire, inside of him. Arthur wouldn't remember that until later, though.

 

The first time Arthur remembered, he was a budding freshman (with the responsibilities of a high school senior, the workload of a university sophomore, and the romantic experience of an average twelve-year-old boy) picking up the promotional poster for the school's first band concert of the year when he turned and saw him beside the door. _He_ was sitting on the table by the door – the one with the pamphlets for the new sexual education course promoting abstinence-until-marriage. _He_ picked up one of the pamphlets, and was reading it with about as much interest as Arthur attributed to his father's morning paper – which was to say, with great care and concentration.

 

Still, there was nothing particularly different about him than from any other boy. To Arthur, he appeared to be just another gangly fifteen-maybe-sixteen-year-old-boy with too many limbs that he couldn't quite control or know what to do with just yet. He was just another probably highly immature teenage boy already compiling a list of dirty questions to ask the sex-ed teacher with the shameless intention of flustering her.

 

"Mr. Eames, get off that table this instant."

 

The secretary barking brought Arthur out of his reverie with a jolt, but Eames's head remained bent over the pamphlet before he raised it slowly, as though being scolded by the authorities was a trivial matter in the face of leaving a sentence unfinished. Their eyes met, and Eames smiled tightly with his muscles straining and eyes squinting suspiciously. It wasn't a hostile gesture, per se, but it wasn't entirely friendly either. It bordered the ' _Yes, can I help you?_ ' with a tinge of 'Why are you staring at me, you _weirdo?'_ that Arthur irrationally found endearing, in the way that he would have found Eames endearing had he snorted and rolled his eyes and blatantly ignored him; in that way hormones had of bypassing all sense of logic and reality.

 

So there was no justifiable reason for Arthur to pause and stare as that dreadful feeling of interest fluttered awake inside of him. Except, perhaps, for a strange feeling of _déjà vu_ tugging at Arthur's mind, some vague recollection of a hunch that he already seen this boy before, but he couldn't place where or when. Arthur would have remembered this boy with gangly arms and blue-gray eyes. And since Arthur had never been one for romantic notions of true love – even less so at such a young age – he blamed the way Eames' unwavering stare turned his eyes darker for the warm pool stirring inside of him, slowly creeping up the inside his stomach and making him do things like _fidget_. Arthur was hardly being inconspicuous, what with having been staring for three minutes straight, and he was pretty sure his eyes were wide and his mouth kind of hanging open in a goofy smile. But, well, where was Eames getting off at, being all masculine and attractive with his short hair, flat chest, and sharp cheekbones?

 

Eames had slid off the table, and he no longer looked tall or clumsy, childish or uncertain. In fact, he appeared to have a clearly defined goal as he headed toward Arthur. It was Arthur's turn to squint as the déjà-vu sharpened; the image was clearly now a memory on the brink of recognition, not a trick of the brain, as Eames walked toward him with slow, deliberate movements and a smirk tugging at his upper lip. Arthur kind of wanted to sock him, and then kiss him.

 

Then a door opened, and the principal called out "Mr. Eames, my office is this way."

 

And just like that, Arthur blinked and Eames was back – tall and awkward in his way of holding himself – and the blurry image Arthur had nearly conjured up evaporated, and he was left with a nagging certainty that something important had managed to elude him.

 

Arthur frowned. Had he just imagined that cool confidence as wishful thinking? Eames had already turned, without sparing a second glance Arthur's way, and walked by the principal with his head hanging and eyes averted in the quintessential image of a scorned child. Mrs. Milton looked over Eames to Arthur.

 

"Hello, Arthur." Her voice was softer than when she'd addressed Eames; even though he was on the student council, Arthur went out of his way to entertain the most cordial of ties with figures of authority. They liked him because he was polite and well-mannered and sensible. He encouraged that image, because it was always easier to acquire favors and leniency from people who liked you rather than the ones who thought you pretentious or stuck-up or turbulent.

 

"Hello, Ma'am. I'm looking for the band banners."

 

Mrs. Milton raised an eyebrow, and her eyes drifted to Arthur's left where the banners sat on the counter. Her expression was undecipherable, but Arthur had a pretty good idea of what she was thinking. What was one of her most brilliant straight-A students doing seemingly interacting with (what Arthur imagined to be) a school punk? Arthur muttered a quick thank you as he felt his face start to burn. He picked up the banners and fled the office. It was in her best interests if she never found out the answer to that question.

 

 

Arthur became aware that he was different from other children when he was six years old. It started in kindergarten, when he, having already learned how to write and count, preferred to stay inside and work on basic first grade mathematical solutions while his classmates went outside to play tag or dig around in the sandbox. It continued throughout elementary and middle school, when it became apparent to his teachers that Arthur was intellectually gifted, and suggested that he move up a few grades so he could be with students he could relate to more, intellectually.

 

His parents refused. Arthur may be as smart as the older children, they acknowledged, but mentally, he was still only eleven years old, and had not lived as a fifteen year old had. "He will be marginalized and excluded from social activities. We don't want Arthur to miss out on his childhood. We want him to have normal experiences."

  


 

 _Normal_.

 

That word followed Arthur around for years after that. Despite being around children of his age, he worked faster than them, assimilated new concepts within a matter of hours or days, instead of weeks or months, and the teachers often brought in extra work for him, assignments prepared for children at least three years older than Arthur. His classmates kept their distance. Some fixed Arthur with an open-eyed gaze of admiration, but most of the time their eyes were narrowed and their mouths were thin lines of distaste, especially when the teacher called upon Arthur to give the answer to a particularly difficult question that had stumped the rest of the class.

 

Needless to say, little love was lost between Arthur and his classmates. He was always picked last during group projects or activities, especially during physical education, although his hand-eye coordination was not particularly atrocious. During recess, everyone ran away from him to play, so Arthur would find a place to sit and open the latest novel he was reading.

 

Arthur didn't believe that he was living normal experiences. Often, when he had finished reading his novel or had grown bored of reading, he wondered what it would be like to be truly normal, to be included in activities and not be looked upon as though he were a strange creature from outer space. At some point during the fourth grade, near the end of fall but just before the weather got too chilly to read outside in the afternoon, Arthur decided, in between pages of _To the Lighthouse_ , that becoming normal would be his only ambition in life.

 

Becoming normal was the first challenge Arthur had set for himself, and for the first time, he was unsure of how to proceed. For the first time, Arthur opened his eyes to just how bored he was with his life. Nothing exciting ever happened, and nothing new ever struck him. He knew that something had to change, and he knew that challenging himself was the only way he was going to stay aware enough to enjoy life.

 

By the time he reached high school, Arthur's whole life had turned around. He had challenged himself out of being a freak. He joined the student council in junior high, and when high school rolled around, Arthur was elected secretary of the council. He had radically changed his image from an anti-social, sulky, pretentious brainiac jerk to the most composed and competent member of the council, whose indispensable organizational skills kept the meetings running smoothly. Never before in all of the school's years had the council's events been coordinated and executed as efficiently and smoothly than under Arthur's watchful and scrutinizing watch.

 

Strangely enough, Arthur being elected to the secretary position, as opposed to the president of the council, had little to do with a lack of popularity. Because as strange as it sounded to Arthur to even think it, he _was_ popular. He didn't have many friends, per se, but people seemed to like him.

 

Yes, Arthur had managed to somewhat overcome the curse of social awkwardness which seems to be mutually exclusive to being a child prodigy (he remained introverted, if not outwardly cold and hostile), and had been surprisingly well accepted at his school. Mostly by the girls, who seemed to feel comforted by his demure nature, and confided their troubles in him. The boys, noting the platonic nature of the girls' interests in Arthur, and Arthur's own romantic disinterest in the girls, didn't begrudge him the attention they invested in him.

 

Arthur, however, did not truly feel like a demure person by nature. He found that, the rare times he had been inspired by such strong emotions, he wanted to express them loudly. He wanted to shout with exuberance, yell with indignation. It was with a sinking feeling of despair when Arthur finally admitted to himself that it was the people around him who inspired little fervor in him. In short, they bored him. They had no complexity, and Arthur saw them all as they were. They had no mystery, nothing to work out, and if there was anything that bored Arthur, it was an easy equation.

 

In his solitude, Arthur turned to computers. In them, he found an entire world of complex equations and foreign languages, which allowed him to break down walls of privacy and travel overseas with the click of a finger, all the while his other hand free to finish off his calculus homework. In this world, Arthur found like-minded people. Geniuses in their domain, misunderstood by their peers, united in their ambitions.

 

For all the solace they brought Arthur, however, they still couldn't replace the longing for physical interaction. Arthur lent an ear to the students around him because although he couldn't bring himself to consider them as friends, he still felt the need to have human interactions. He prayed that, when he entered puberty, he would finally feel that much-needed incentive to talk to girls, to want to make them laugh, instead of it happening accidentally, and in situations when he was being serious. Such as when Kathy Barns had asked how she could be of help in sorting out the graduates' name cards for the The Big Night, and he had told her to sit down and dear God not touch _anything_ , which she seemed to have found positively hilarious and had helped him anyway. He prayed that he would become genuinely interested in them, rather than – in what could be a misguided attempt to make the best out of a dire situation – care more about knowing everything about everyone in general.

 

Because that's what Arthur, by high school, had become – the centralized gossip box, almost like the school's very own confessional booth. Sometimes, he had to work by schedule the demand was so overwhelming (especially around Valentine's Day and the first week of spring and summer, when everyone's hormones – other than his – always seemed to flare).

 

When puberty finally hit, sometime around the end of middle school and the summer before high school, Arthur discovered a very important fact of life: being normal was not something he was inherently predisposed to be.

 

While boys his age had been chasing girls and fighting each other over to ask them to be their dates for the school sock hops for years, Arthur discovered a dreadful feeling: a low, warm stirring of interest inside of him which he knew was what made the other young boys' heads turn at the sight of a pretty girl, but which insisted on remaining impartial to curvy waists and protuberant chests and more inclined toward virility.

 

It's not that Arthur was disgusted with himself for these peculiar penchants of his. The subject rarely came up at his home, but he had once heard his parents refer to inflictions such as his as "predispositions," so nothing led him to believe that his family would disown him if they found out. But he knew for a fact that, in order for his goal of normality to be achieved, it was essential (and he had observed the trend carefully for years now) that he marry a woman to one day have children with. So, to a fourteen-year-old boy only discovering his body after having long ago mastered complex algebraic equations, it felt like a lot of extra work.

 

But Arthur was used to extra work and was determined; he had just about resigned himself to his new challenge – finding girls attractive – when something completely unexpected and quite possibly portentous happened.

 

Arthur met Eames.

 

**

 

Arthur ended up casually mentioning Eames to Camille. She was one of the few girls Arthur actually trusted enough to not go around boasting the fact that Arthur had confided to her even the most miniscule amount of his personal thoughts.

 

They were at their usual table in the cafeteria, the table by the far window, away from the rest of the adolescent crowd. Camille was busy trying to multitask between finishing up the last few exercises of her math homework, so Arthur could look it over before she had to turn it in, and eating her lunch.

 

"Eames? Yeah, of course I know him," was her inattentive reply. After a few seconds of pencil scribbling on paper, she added, "He played Fagin in the play last year. Don't you remember? There was the whole kerfuffle because apparently a lot of the others thought he should have even gotten to play Oliver, but Paul Newsman got the part because he's Mrs. K's nephew. Then he almost snatched the role of Bill Sikes, but Mrs. K has this 'thing' where she privileges seniors over the newbies, and one of them had his heart set on the role." She looked up then, frowning at some sort of recollection. "Didn't you go see three of the five showings? How come you don't remember him? Don't you usually know everything about everyone?"

 

Arthur had to fight to keep his mouth closed. He couldn't believe the Eames in the office had been the one who had played Fagin in the school play. Arthur _had_ gone to see the play three times, and part of the reason had been because of Fagin's character, who he'd marveled over. He had known the actor was younger than the others -- it had been obvious when he had entered the stage the first time. But that trivial detail was forgotten through the performance he delivered. He had been sleazy and disgusting, hitting the English accent of the slums on the nail, oozing with ulterior motives and a disingenuous smile that had made Arthur's skin crawl. He hadn't resembled the nervous and awkward teenager who had appeared anxious at getting a scolding from the principal. It irked Arthur that he hadn't been able to make the connection. He didn't know everything about everyone, as Camille had so eloquently put it, but he usually did not forget a face. The fact that he had, and the fact that Eames had been able to so drastically change his demeanor as to fool him, intrigued Arthur.

 

Camille must have caught something in his look because she smirked. "What? Do you want to meet him? I kind of know him – He's good friends with Sab. I bet I could get them to eat lunch with us."

 

Arthur felt his face heat up. "W-what? No. I'm busy enough as it is. I was just curious, is all. It's not like I _like_ him." Then he shut up because he realized he was babbling and Camille was grinning at him, making him feel like an idiot. He was supposed to be above such infantile feelings. "Whatever," he snorted, and then rolled his eyes for good measures – because apparently that's what kids did to emphasize just how much they didn't care.

 

Camille simply laughed.

 

She ended up bringing Eames to lunch three days later. "Arthur, Eames. Eames, Arthur," she introduced dispassionately as she slumped down on one of the cafeteria stools and passed her latest math homework over to Arthur.

 

"Charmed," Eames drawled, and Arthur realized, with a leap of the heart, that he actually was British.

 

"H-hi," Arthur stammered, because he was incredibly smart and cultured and didn't know the first thing about being a gay adolescent in the Midwest forming a crush on the foreign student at his school.

 

"So, you're the famous Arthur, then," Eames commented, taking a seat beside Arthur, smirking at him like he knew everything about him, and Arthur suddenly felt like a small child admiring the worldly adult in front of him. "I didn't know you did maths homework for free! That's brilliant." He leaned forward as though confessing a deep, dark secret. "I'm kind of shite at maths."

 

Arthur had the feeling that he should be insulted at the insinuation that he just did anyone's math homework, but all he could think of was that Eames was close and he smelled good, a hint of smoke mingled in with some sort of cologne.

 

 

"He does _not_ do my homework," Camille spoke up, although she sounded less affronted at the thought of Eames diminishing her intelligence and more wistful, like the thought of Arthur doing her homework would be something marvelous. "Look, I've got to go. I told Sab I'd meet her in the theater. She's rehearsing her lines, and I said I'd help. Arthur, hand me those after next period, all right? Ta!"

 

The cafeteria was noisy and filled with students, but the silence between them was obvious and awkward. Arthur licked his lips for something to say – anything – before Eames signed him off as a nut job and took off to join his pals, who he was already waving to at the other side of the room.

 

"I saw your play," Arthur finally blurted without thinking. "I mean not yours, since you weren't even a freshman, but I remember you played Fagin. You were really good. I was impressed."

 

Eames finally turned away from his friends, a playful smile tugging at the edge of his lips. Arthur's eyes dipped down, he couldn't believe he hadn't noticed earlier how full those lips were, before looking right back up, scared Eames had noticed. Eames didn't seem to have though. "Thank you. Your condescension is greatly appreciated, Arthur."

 

Arthur scowled, he hadn't been condescending, but the lightness in Eames' voice was evident. "Shut up, I was being serious. I went to see it three times. How did you even get the role?"

 

"Junior-high drama teacher saw my potential and pulled some strings," Eames grinned. "Although convincing Mrs. K to let me play something other than a street urchin with one on-stage appearance and one line that wasn't a grunt was a harder feat."

 

"I'm glad she did," Arthur replied honestly. They lapsed back into silence, and Arthur spent a few moments inwardly panicking, fearing he had been too obvious, and now Eames had caught on and was disgusted and would go around telling everyone what a "poof" Arthur was. Arthur had spent too long on his reputation to inadvertently be the one to bring about its destruction.

 

"So," Eames said instead, casually, "what does the composed and stoic Arthur like to do for fun?"

 

The question stumped Arthur. It wasn't usually what people asked him. In fact, most of the time, the questions directed Arthur's way were either when he had a slot in his schedule so he could talk about their problems, or when he would be finished tallying up the replies to the latest poll so they could know which themes the seniors preferred for their marching band event in the spring. No one really asked him anything about, well, _him_.

 

Arthur realized with absolute certitude that he could not say his favorite pastime was breaking into the school's server to collect confidential information on students he knew or had heard of by name. It wasn't like he used anything he learned. He just liked knowing. Just in case. But he still he couldn't say _that_.

 

He settled for "I like surfing the web."

 

Eames stared at him, as though for waiting for an additional dozen activities to be added to the list, then his smile wavered. "No, seriously?"

 

Arthur shrugged, and smiled sheepishly.

 

"Have you never gone to the record store?" Eames asked, incredulous.

 

Arthur grimaced, and Eames made a low guttural sound of pain. "You're not some Puritan against all forms of entertainment, are you?"

 

Arthur opened his mouth to protest wholeheartedly. He had _bucketloads_ of fun. Truly, he did. Just, by himself, usually, in his room, at the computer, but then the bell rang, and Eames jumped to his feet.

 

"Can't be late to drama class. Listen, meet me out front after school, okay?"

 

Arthur wanted to ask what for – he had a schedule to keep after all – but Eames had already picked up his bag and twisted himself through the spaces between people, and was off out of sight. Arthur sat for a moment longer, trying to process what exactly had happened. And that's when he understood. He had been asked out after school. By a guy. He was going on a _date_.

 

**

 

They took the bus because Arthur was still fourteen years old, and Eames had only recently turned fifteen and had not gone to get his driver's permit yet. Arthur tried not to fidget, but Eames was sitting beside him and leaning in close, and giving Arthur a rolling commentary of the town as the bus trotted down the streets, as though Eames were the local American student and Arthur the disoriented foreign exchange student. Although, to be fair, Eames was more than an exchange student; he had moved to town two years ago, and was actually a resident. But, still, Arthur was the one who had been born in the local hospital.

 

"Eames, I know what road this is," Arthur couldn't help but roll his eyes as Eames pointed out the main street.

 

"Really? And yet you've never gone to Tiff's Tasty Trattoria for lunch? Shame on you." The bus slowed, and Eames stood. "Come on. If you're nice, we'll stop by on the way back."

 

Arthur usually had meatloaf and steamed carrots for dinner with his family on Friday nights, but he kept quiet and followed Eames off the bus. Although Arthur had grown up in the town, it was the first time he entered the record store. His parents usually gave him albums for his birthday or Christmas. He had never had the need to come here.

 

Eames, on the other hand, appeared to be a regular customer. He greeted the cashier, a twenty-odd year old good-looking guy with blond hair swept back in one of those horribly trendy gel coiffures that Arthur despised, with an easy high five and an amicable "What's hanging, my friend?"

 

Arthur disconnected from their conversation while he glanced around him at the rows and rows of music albums. Over each row, a sign indicated the genre of the music, and near the back of the store, Arthur saw written on a big sign VINYL RECORDS.

 

"-came to culture this uncultivated brat," Eames finished, and Arthur only realized he was talking about him when he saw Eames' thumb jutted his way.

 

"Hey, I know music," he protested, though rather feebly. It was true that he wasn't exactly knowledgeable in music. He liked to work in silence, whether he was studying or hacking, so the rare times he listened to the records his parents had given to him was when he prepared for bed.

 

"Of course you do," Eames said in an appeasing tone, but Arthur caught him rolling his eyes at the cashier. "Well **,** come along, then."

 

Eames led Arthur to the back of the store, bypassing the compact disc and cassettes sections without even glancing at the selections. Arthur's parents still had a phonograph, and even an 8-track player, in the living room, but they had bought him a boombox for his eleventh birthday. It seemed, however, that Eames preferred to play it old school when it came to music,and he grinned when they came to a stop, diving into the rack labeled NEW COLLECTION.

 

"Let's start on your musical education then, little man," Eames waved Arthur closer. "Lesson number one," he said as he pulled out a record with the bust of a man with his eyes closed and open mouth stretched out into what Arthur couldn't tell if it was a grimace of pain or a sigh of longing. "British bands are always better. _Always._ "

 

"Radiohead. _The Bends,_ " Arthur read aloud. "What kind of name is Radiohead?"

 

"A bloody brilliant one."

 

Eames tucked the record under his arm and led Arthur further down the rack, pointing out all of the indispensable names of rock and roll. Arthur nodded and made noises of acknowledgment, but his eyes were strained on Eames and the names were merely a background noise, insignificant, and frankly a bit of a distraction.

 

Eames was genuinely smiling, eyes wide and bright, and his voice was patent with passion. There was nothing gangly or awkward about him in this moment. He lifted records with care and attention that did not usually manifest itself in teenage boys. Eames was bright, bigger than life. Arthur realized why people were so mesmerized by him. Arthur was no better. He felt like a helpless electron orbiting around the nucleus, eager to push forth and become closer, to touch and possess, but constantly repelled by the force of nature. There was no way Eames would ever allow it, the very notion of it would probably disgust him, and yet Arthur wanted to fit his body against his side and let his mouth travel the line of his jaw.

 

"-thur."

 

Arthur blinked, and his gaze shifted back into focus. He felt his face redden as he realized he'd been transfixed, staring ardently at Eames' profile. "What?"

 

Eames scowled. "I don't know what everyone raves on about. You're a terrible student."

 

He was holding a new record. This time, Arthur recognized the cover and the band name. His parents had bought him the CD version of _Bat Out of Hell II: Back Into Hell_ last Christmas. In his opinion, the man's shrill voice was more of a nuisance than anything, but then again, Arthur had never bothered to take the time to listen to the lyrics. Besides, how could he possibly hold a high regard for a guy who had stage-named himself Meat Loaf?

 

"Isn't he American?"

 

"Ah, good catch, Arthur," Eames cooed, and Arthur actually preened. "But you lot completely undervalue him, unlike us in the UK, who have recognized his greatness and worship him like he deserves."

 

"No, right. You know, I much prefer instrumental music," Arthur tried to keep his voice light. "Lyrical music just distracts me too much from my work." He stopped then because Eames had turned a ghastly pale, and made a low, broken sound in the back of a throat.

 

"Don't worry," Eames whispered, when he had recovered. "I'll save your soul."

 

They made their way to the cashier, Eames holding _The Bends_ proudly, which he presented to the good-looking man who Arthur noticed – thanks to the handy nametag he had apparently missed earlier – was named Greg.

 

The record was $6.87. Eames handed over a ten dollar bill, and then dug his hands into his pockets and pulled out a few jingling coins. "You got ten cents?" he asked Arthur. Arthur fished out a dime for him, and Eames handed it to Greg, along with three cents. "Now just gimme back three bills."

 

Greg grinned sheepishly at Arthur, but complied and handed Eames three one dollar bills. "I thought you were bad at mathematics," Arthur said once they had left the store.

 

Eames stared at him for a moment, perplexed. Then, he remembered the reference and laughed. "No, mate, that wasn't maths. That was common sense. Not like that shoddy algebrainiac nonsense they make us do at school."

 

Eames tried to drag Arthur to "Tiff's Tees," but Arthur's body was doing funny things he couldn't seem to control so he begged off. He had told his parents he'd be home early, and they would be worried, he said.

 

It wasn't exactly a lie. He hadn't told his parents anything, but he was usually home early on Fridays anyway. But it wasn't like they would worry. They would just assume he had been held back at school by some project or another.

 

Still, Eames let him go without too much of a fight, and Arthur rushed to his room the second he arrived home, shouting a distracted greeting to his mother and sister, who were watching the television in the living room.

 

His body was burning, like when he had a sunburn, but with less pain and more _hot_. There was no source, but it all seemed to pool in his stomach. He knew what was happening. Obviously, he wasn't that dense. He was getting an erection. Unfortunately, he did not know how to deal with it. It had never happened before, and his parents had never had 'the talk' with him, like they had had with Amanda when she'd first told her parents a boy had asked her out. He wildly wished he had taken an interest in the sexual education brochures at school, but then again, he was pretty sure masturbation wasn't a hot topic issue when on the road to abstinence.

 

Finally, he shed all of his clothes and – trying not to stare down at himself – got into the shower. He usually took his showers burning hot, but three seconds in, he realized that he was only enabling his hormonal-crazed body. He toned it down, but it wasn't until the water got icy that his body finally seemed to cool down and his cock became flaccid again. Arthur stayed in the shower until his shivering became uncontrollable.

 

When he stepped out of the shower, he told himself that Eames was bad news; quite obviously, he would only hinder Arthur's goal to rectify his momentarily glitched sexual preference so he could find a nice girl and live normally.

 

Arthur toweled himself off, and staring at himself ardently in the glass, swore that he would never again engage in any sort of after school activities with Eames.

 

**

 

Three days later, Arthur found himself lying on the carpet in Eames' room, listening to "Creep" and smoking pot.

 

Eames had pulled it out of a small rectangular metal box hidden underneath his dresser. When he'd handed the joint to Arthur, Arthur didn't even think of refusing it, and Eames had laughed at Arthur as the first few puffs he took sent him into a coughing fit. But now his throat had become accustomed to the grating smoke and his mouth was dry, lips chapped and tongue somewhat pasty. It should have been unpleasant, by logical deduction of the symptoms, but Arthur's head was spinning slowly, letting the music take over his body, and he felt great. He had never felt so calm. It was as though the pot put everything into perspective. He had a statistics chart to make for tomorrow, but heck, he had all night for that, and when he passed the joint back to Eames, he watched as their fingers brushed. His body didn't flutter into a frenzy, as it had been doing the entire week when Eames had looked at him or accidentally touched him. It just felt nice.

 

He let his eyes close, and focused solely on the music. How many times had Eames gotten up to put this song back on? "I'm a creep," Arthur mused along with the singer. "I'm a weiirddoo."

 

Beside him, Eames let out a guff of a laugh. Arthur let his head fall back onto the carpet and opened his eyes at Eames. The singer sang  _I want you to notice when I'm not around_ and Eames turned to Arthur, eyes shining with detachment, and he mouthed ' _you're so fucking special_.' Arthur's heart clenched. How fitting were the lyrics, in nearly every aspect. But he wanted to shout at Eames, _No, I'm not_. What was special about a lanky teenager spending his evenings in front of his computer instead of with kids his own age?

 

Arthur wanted to cup Eames' head and say,  _You're the special one_. The way he acted, like he could be anyone he wanted. He wanted to say,  _I'm so jealous of the way you sway your hand in beat with the music; it's like you're caressing it. I want you to be in touch like that with me as well._

 

He wanted to say all of that. But he didn't. Because he was stoned. Because the words sounded beautiful in his mind, and the image of Eames trailing his hand that slowly down Arthur's chest was beautiful in his mind, but spoken aloud would have ruined everything. Ruined the trance of the moment.

 

In this moment, being beside Eames, being his friend but not quite allowed to touch him like he wanted, was amazing. It wasn't unbearable, unlike at school where Arthur's gut twisted into ten knots, leaving him unable to utter anything other than monosyllabic words. Here, like this, it was perfect. They could have been the best of friends, Arthur realized, if only he could stay stoned all the time.

 

Unfortunately for Arthur, that was not a liable solution. The effect wore off, and in those moments of clarity he managed to convince himself that it was unwise to come to class in such a state. Fortunately for him, Eames had gotten into his mind that Arthur was a perfectly swell companion to have around, despite his vocabulary shrinking by three-fourths in his presence, and continued dragging Arthur off after school.

 

Because Arthur never did anything halfway, he brushed up on his music culture, and he and Eames developed their own inside jokes of speaking in lyric quotations.

 

Surprisingly enough, Arthur was the one to start their trend. Eames usually spent time at school with his friends, and most lunch periods he was in the drama room rehearsing his lines. That day, though, he and Sab joined Arthur and Camille at their usual table in the cafeteria.

 

"I'm glad to see Arthur is still making time for your _precious_ math homework," Sab mocked in good-humor as she slid into the empty stool by her homework, flashing Arthur a quick grin along the way. "Now that Eames' sunk his hooks into the fellow, I never see a hair on his head anymore. I swear, he has no time on his hands now that he's discovered _boys_."

 

Arthur reddened, but he knew that Sab was joking. After all, he'd always been a part of "the girls" since he had no male friends. If they had noticed anything, he was sure their reaction wouldn't have been as casual, even if they would end up being supportive.

 

Camille laughed and rolled her eyes. "I know. If I had known how much time Eames was going to occupy, I'd have never let him close to Arthur. You better not tell anyone else it was me," Camille suddenly added, pointing a threatening finger Sab's way. "If the other girls realize I'm the one that lost us Arthur, I'll be forever shunned."

 

"What, hey, ladies," Eames sputtered. "We are right here. Dashing young men we are. How can you speak about Arthur in such a way? I've _improved_  him. He was such a sorry, uncultured fellow before."

 

Sab pretended to consider this information. "You know," she turned to Camille, as if she were the one who needed convincing, "he does look happier lately. Healthier too."

 

"You're right." Camille gestured to Arthur's face. "Kind of pink in the cheeks. Some color to him. Does him good."

 

Arthur was pretty sure he was entirely scarlet, but he forced himself to keep his cool. He wasn't about to be outdone by a couple of sixteen-year-old girls who barely understood logarithms.

 

"Maybe it's because," Arthur turned to address Eames, feeling completely ridiculous for what he was about to say, " _You're gonna be the one that saves me, after all."_

 

Camille and Sab frowned, wondering if Arthur had lost his mind, and Eames stared at him for a second, as though he understood, but couldn't wrap his mind around what was happening. Arthur stared right back.

 

Slowly, Eames grinned, baring those horribly charming crooked teeth of his. "Why, Arthur," he nearly cooed. "Did you just quote Oasis to me?"

 

Arthur forced himself to keep looking at Eames, knowing he couldn't humanely get any redder than he already was. He shrugged casually.

 

"Oh, baby," Eames all but leered at him, "I love it when you talk music to me."

 

In the back of his mind, Arthur knew this wasn't healthy, but at the front, he couldn't care less. He grinned, proud at himself for having pleased – and probably impressed – Eames. He knew this was the start of something big.

 

Camille stared, torn between amazement and horror. "Eames," she rasped in a stage-whisper, "where is Arthur, and what have you done with him?"

 

**

 

Camille and Sab weren't the only ones who noticed the change in Arthur's demeanor. Although none had been as particularly acute in their observation as his sister Amanda was.

 

Arthur and Eames had been friends for three months before Amanda finally spoke up. She was two years older than Arthur, and although her I.Q. was inferior to his, she possessed a scary eye to detail and was remarkably accurate in all her observations in regards to Arthur.

 

She brought it up one evening while they were watching television together. The way she had been glancing Arthur's way throughout the whole show cued him in.

 

"Well," Amanda finally said when Arthur told her to just come out and say it, "Mom and Dad have noticed how you've been going out a lot lately. And you just seem a lot more relaxed at home, and you hang out with us a lot more than you used to. You're less cooped up in your room and everything."

 

"Yeah? So?" Arthur frowned. Okay, so being in Eames' presence had made him realize how nice it was to be around people, and that he didn't spend nearly as much time as he should with his family. He was trying to make up for lost time, was all. He didn't see her point.

 

Amanda chewed back a smile. "They think you've got a girl."

 

Arthur turned to her, wide-eyed. "As in..."

 

"Yeah, a girlfriend."

 

"Oh, my gosh. No!" Arthur sputtered, then remembered liking girls was normal for someone his age and wished he hadn't been so obvious.

 

Amanda was outright grinning though. "I didn't think so. People around school have been saying you and Eames have become good friends. I don't see you two together much at school."

 

"Yeah, well, he has his group, you know. And drama, so he's often in the theater rehearsing lines. We usually hang out after school. He talks to me about music, and stuff." Arthur winced. 'Hanging out and stuff?' Where had his articulateness gone? He sounded like a right thug.

 

Amanda was smiling. Not the 'I've totally just read you' smile she reserved for occasions where she read Arthur like an average children's book, whereas everyone else considered him more a read along the lines of _Man's Fate_ , but just a normal, pleased smile. "You should bring him around sometime."

 

"Why?" The thought of Eames in the same room as his parents wasn't cause for alarm. Eames was well-mannered and polite, when he wanted to be, and had more fashion sense than Amanda's current boyfriend, who was under some wild delusion that the goatee _à la_ Maynard G. Krebs actually suited him. No, it was just the thought of Amanda with her wide eyes and sharp mind, connecting all the dots with one sweeping gaze,that unnerved him.

 

Amanda shrugged, looking back at the television. "No reason, it's just I told Mom that I didn't think it was a girl. I said I thought you'd made a friend. She just got so excited at the thought of you, like,  _interacting_  or something with other kids your age. She said she wanted to meet him and everything. But it's cool. I'll tell her that you don't want to introduce your friends to her."

 

Arthur scowled at his sister's profile. Damn, she was good.

 

Eames came over that weekend for lunch, since Arthur's mom could not receive company and not cook something. Eames and his dad got on spectacularly well, chatting up a storm over England, where Arthur's dad spent some of his young adulthood before he met and married his wife. Eames heaped praise upon Arthur's mom's cooking, calling her ma'am and washing his hands before eating without being asked, and won the gold star of approval by default. Amanda and Eames knew each other from school, though Eames was surprised to find out she and Arthur were actually related.

 

"You look nothing alike!" he exclaimed, permitting himself to drape an arm around Amanda's shoulders. "Such a pretty girl like yourself having such a grumpy brother? I'd never have guessed."

 

Amanda giggled, and Arthur scowled. "She has a boyfriend."

 

Eames heaved a sigh. "Pity." He withdrew his arm. "Let me know when it's over, eh?" and winked at Amanda, who seemed to have heard it all before and merely rolled her eyes. The thought of Eames having flirted with his sister at school surprised Arthur. He had been observing Eames since they became friends, and had never caught him flirting with a girl before. Eames hadn't had a girlfriend since they'd known each other, and a quick (and discreet) search had revealed that Eames hadn't had a girlfriend, to anyone's knowledge, since he had arrived two years ago. The thought of Eames liking his sister made Arthur's stomach turn.

 

He barely ate anything at lunch, but everyone was so busy talking to Eames that they didn't notice. After the meal, Arthur took Eames up to his room and showed him his boombox; Eames grimaced at it as though it was an insult to his very person. So, Arthur showed him his computer. Eames didn't have one at home – "Have no use for it," he said with a shrug – but sat patiently as Arthur showed him everything he could do with it, and the internet. He allowed Arthur to create him an e-mail address and promised he'd talk to his parents about investing in this 'technology of the future.'

 

Amanda didn't come upstairs until a few hours after Eames had left, and even then she knocked softly at his door before coming in. Arthur was on his guard as she sat down on his bed and looked at the computer; she only knocked when she was in one of those moods where she felt she had to tiptoe around Arthur.

 

"Mom happy then?" he asked, though without much rancor. He was rather glad that his parents had met Eames. It made him feel real, all of the sudden, as though Arthur hadn't been scared until now that Eames had only been a figment of his imagination dreamed up because everyone else was too dull.

 

"Yeah. Yeah, Mom's happy. Dad too. Thinks he's a good strapping lad, 'will make some lucky girl very happy someday,'" she said, half-heartedly mimicking their father's deep voice.

 

Arthur smiled. "Great."

 

There was an awkward silence where Arthur waited for Amanda to say something, but she stayed silent staring at the computer screen, not daring to or not knowing how to come out and say it.

 

"You like Eames too, don't you?" She finally stopped staring at the computer and looked at Arthur.

 

"Well, sure. He's a friend, like you said."

 

"No. I mean you like him. In the way I like Karl. In the way everyone _knows_  James is crazy about Marla. You know, in the way a guy should like a girl."

 

Arthur's mind went blank. He knew Amanda was quick, but he had never expected her to actually figure it out. It seemed so far from what everyone knew as normal. Usually, people stayed inside their box of normality. They never actually considered the abnormal existed if they had never seen it. All he could think, though, was 'Well, so much for the tiptoeing.'

 

"I – I mean, it's..." Arthur took a deep breath. "It's probably just a phase."

 

Arthur figured that would appease her. He would only be abnormal until Eames tired of him, and then he was sure that he'd find a girl who was just as interesting, but Amanda fiddled with the hole in her sock for a long time.

 

"Philip was too, you know," Amanda finally spoke. Arthur blinked. Philip was her last boyfriend. He'd come over one day, and they'd closed themselves up in Amanda's room and then he'd left. Amanda had cried for hours. Arthur thought that would be the end of it and she would go on hating him, but he was over every day for months after that, so much more so than when they had been dating. Arthur thought they had gotten back together, but whenever he asked, Amanda would frown and say "What? Of course not." as though the very notion was ridiculous. Arthur hadn't known why it was so ridiculous when they were spending more time together than when they had actually been going out.

 

"He told me he started having these feelings for other guys shortly after we started going out. I think he only told me that because he didn't want me to feel hurt or used. I kind of still do feel used. But I understand. It can't be easy, when everyone around you is another way, and no one talks about it."

 

Arthur didn't know what to say. He was so confounded. _Philip was a homosexual_? But, he had gone out with Amanda! Who did such a thing? Thank goodness he had moved to Canada, or else Arthur would have felt forced to do something foolish, like revenge his sister's honor and punch him, and then his hand would have been bruised for weeks and he would have had to write with his left hand, which was fine and all, but he smudged the ink at times and then it got all over the paper and made a mess.

 

"I want you to know that I'm here for you. I won't tell anyone. Philip talked to me about it a lot. He said he didn't know what he would have done if he'd had to live with it all bottled up inside." Amanda's bottom lip quivered, and Arthur wanted to take her into his arms. "I don't want you to feel that you have to bottle everything up. I want you to be happy."

 

"How could you tell?" Arthur whispered.

 

Amanda sniffed and wiped her eyes of the unshed tears. "Phil liked someone at school. I guess I got used to seeing that look of longing from afar, that look of knowing you can never have the thing you most desire. I don't know how to explain it, it's like there's this shine in the eye when that person laughs or is happy, but underneath it, there's still this sad, heartbroken look. It can't be easy."

 

Arthur thought of all the months he had known Eames, and how the desire to be close to him, to touch him and be the source of his laughter, only grew stronger with each passing day. "It gets easier to live with," he lied.

 

**

 

Arthur believed he and Eames would always be together.

 

Greg at the record store soon learned his name, and Arthur made a place for himself on Eames' couch where they smoked and listened to music. The time Arthur said, stoned out of his mind, that Nirvana sounded like a band of wild monkeys, always screeching and howling, Eames had rolled off his bed with laughter.

 

Somehow, Arthur had forgotten that time did not stay still, and that life ran on a system of cycles, some longer than others. The school cycle was one such that eventually came to a close before starting up again.

 

Needless to say, summer hit Arthur like a slap in the face, especially when Eames glumly said that his parents were taking him to England to visit family.

 

Arthur spent the summer drifting through the house, with no particular goal in mind. He wrote e-mails to Eames that he never sent, because Eames' mom never did buy that computer, and besides, even if she had, apparently no one in Eames' family in England had one either. He kept up with the summer singles, and pulled all his blinds down in his room because the heat was suffocating and only the darkness seemed to help.

 

Halfway through the summer, he received a postcard from Eames which read, in Eames' scrawl of a handwriting, " _My friends are so distressed and standing on the brink of emptiness, I bet. Don't rot in your house, Arthur, go out and enjoy the sun I'm sure you stole from all us uptight English folks. Don't deserve the sun if you don't smile. So show the world those dimples. See you in September._ "

 

Arthur grinned and rolled his eyes. He was not distressed, and although the only thing he was on the brink of was a cold shower because it was hot and dry, he knew Eames had gotten it spot on. He was lonely and empty without Eames around.

 

Unable to refuse Eames anything even when he wasn't around, Arthur grabbed a book and headed off to the park. It was slightly unnerving to see the town again by himself. Before Eames, he had never paid much attention to the buildings. He had always been so busy getting to and from school, head filled with projects and plans of more projects. Then, after he met Eames, he was so enraptured by him that he seemed to be all Arthur could look at.

 

Without projects and without Eames, Arthur realized how beautiful the town was. The quaint houses lined up, with their colorful patios and well-kept lawns. Arthur became fascinated by the prospects of building. He holed himself up in the local library and gobbled up all the books they had on architecture.

 

He marveled at this art dictated by calculation and precision, intermingled with a certain imagination and creativity of the mind. One night, Arthur dreamed of building a skyscraper that was actually esthetically appealing. Another day, he imagined creating cozy cottages by a lake.

 

Before the summer was out, Arthur had decided on his next challenge: he would become a renowned architect.

 

**

 

Eames grew over the summer, and was taller than Arthur when he came back. He hadn't filled out much, in terms of muscle mass, and was even slimmer than before, though he swore he was going to start working out soon. He carried himself with enough confidence for his long limbs to pass off with grace, unlike Arthur, who felt like a clumsy oaf with his spaghetti arms. Or maybe he just thought so because whenever he saw Eames, his mouth watered, and he couldn’t imagine having the same effect on Eames.

 

In October, Eames got his driver's license and took Arthur to the drive-in, because he had a small truck with three seats up front and liked scooting over beside Arthur and propping his feet up on the dashboard, something they weren't allowed to do in the normal theaters.

 

The touching began at the drive-in. Arthur remembered because the first time it happened, he was so tightly wound (sitting so close to Eames and breathing him in did that to him) that the hand around his shoulder startled him so badly that he spilled half his Coca-Cola on his white pants.

 

"Great," he muttered over the roaring of his beating heart in his ears.

 

"It's no biggie," Eames said with a shrug.

 

"Yes it is," Arthur snapped, annoyed that Eames was being so casual and leaving his arm around Arthur as though it belonged there, and annoyed with himself that he agreed. "It's going to dry and leave a stain, and no detergent will get it out."

 

Eames said. "That was too easy. Meat Loaf."

 

"What?" Arthur snapped, but then it dawned on him, Eames' favorite line from 'Life is a Lemon and I Want My Money Back.' "No, I'm serious," he insisted, but with less bite in his voice, and let himself lean back, at least for now, into Eames' embrace. "This stain is in for good."

 

Arthur thought the occurrence was a one-time thing. Eames hadn't been paying attention and they had been in his vehicle, watching a movie. He had only wanted to get comfortable and stretch out his arm. He let himself believe that even after the touching became recurrent. A tap on the knee to get his attention, an arm on his shoulder to direct him another way, which didn't let go right away but lingered longer than necessary.

 

Arthur didn't know what to make of the situation. So instead, he tried not to think about it. Eames was just a nice guy. They had been friends for over a year now, so maybe Eames was just getting comfortable being around him. Arthur had seen how Eames sometimes draped himself over his drama friends, girls or guys. So, instead, Arthur focused on trying not to touch him back. He knew he could never pull off the light touches with the same casualness as Eames. One touch, and Eames would feel how hot Arthur was, and realize his eyes weren't tiny and unfocused because he hadn't had much sleep the previous night.

 

Eames spent more time with Arthur and Camille at lunchtime, and Arthur spent the whole year looking and talking about girls.

 

"Do you think Michelle in art class would go out with me?" Arthur blurted out one afternoon after Eames' hand had accidentally brushed his thigh a little too high up for comfort.

 

The hand retreated as the others at the table shouted in unison: " _What_?"

 

"M-Michelle?" Arthur tried again, trying to recall just what Michelle looked like again. She was the brunette, wasn't she? Or was that Ashley...

 

"Well, I...I suppose so." Camille exchanged a startled look with Sab. Arthur had never voiced interest in another girl before. "She is nice, I suppose."

 

"She has a boyfriend," Eames snapped from beside Arthur, voice hard.

 

"Oh, really? I didn't know. Listen, Arthur," Sab grinned suggestively his way. "If you're finally entering the dating world, I know a couple of nice gals who think you are positively adorable."

 

Eames got off his stool and left.

 

"What's his problem?" Camille huffed.

 

"Forget him. He's just jealous that girls are batting their eyes Arthur's way and not his own," Sab joked. "So, what do you say, Arthur?"

 

Arthur muttered about having forgotten to make some photocopies for the Student Council meeting that afternoon and fled.

 

The idea of Eames being jealous was completely outrageous. Arthur still continued to be confided in by girls, though on a less daily basis than before, and a lot of girls now approached him asking if Arthur knew if Eames had a girlfriend, or if he knew if Eames was interested in having a girlfriend. Arthur politely told them to ask Eames himself. He wasn't their messenger boy. Still, he knew Eames had to but snap his fingers and the girls would line up to date him.

 

The very notion of Eames dating someone who wasn't Arthur made Arthur's blood boil. But when he imagined himself with a girl, his stomach dropped ten feet, and none of the heavy fire that burned when he thought of Eames was present. Thinking of other men wasn't much more of a success, but his body did react more favorably, at least with sexual interest if not with an intention to form a long-lasting emotional bond.

 

After the Michelle fiasco, the touching stopped, though nothing else did. Arthur found he missed the touching more than he enjoyed the tranquility that came with not having to force himself to keep breathing normally every five minutes.

 

Over the summer, Eames left for England again, and Arthur sat his parents down on the couch and took a deep breath. He had spent hours in front of the mirror finessing the perfect speech to slowly lull his parents into complacency into accepting the fact that he was a little different from others,  _again_ , but that this didn't need to be the end of the world because he didn't particularly dislike liking men.

 

"So, I'm gay," he said.

 

"What about, honey?" his mother asked, smiling.

 

"No, Mom. Gay, as in homosexual. He likes other guys," Amanda cleared up.

 

The smiling faltered, and then gradually slipped away. "Oh."

 

"You knew this, Amanda?" their father asked.

 

"Oh, sure, for ages. I mean, it was pretty obvious from the way he stared at Eames."

 

"Is Eames his … his..." their mother tried.

 

"He wishes," Amanda joked.

 

Arthur felt horribly left out of the conversation. "I'm telling you because I don't want to lie to you."

 

His father nodded, smiling helplessly, although Arthur could tell that what the information truly entailed still hadn't sunk in.

 

They were all silent for a long moment. Arthur half-expected his mother to start crying, or his father to go on a rampage about how men were supposed to be _men_  and not _girls_ , but he stayed silent as well. Even Amanda stayed silent, although all joking had gone out of her eyes and she exchanged a worried glance with Arthur.

 

"Well, I suppose this was to be expected," was what Arthur's mom finally said, causing all eyes on her to widen and then narrow in confusion. "I mean, very smart people usually do turn out homosexual. Just look at all those famous authors and poets. Oscar Wilde, for one. And I've always suspected _something_  about Shakespeare, with so many of his poems so predominantly masculine. And goodness knows Rimbeau had his fair share of homosexual activities. I read somewhere that my favorite author, W. Somerset Maugham, was engaged for years in a shady relationship with another man." She took a short pause and heaved a sigh. "Needless to say," she fixed her gaze on Arthur now, "they were all terribly unhappy men, in one way or another. But I expect they would be, having to fold to societal norms in order to be marginalized - or dodge worse, sent to prison – and marry someone they felt absolutely no attraction to either physically or mentally. Arthur, you are my son, and I do not wish that sort of misery upon you. I will always love you and I will support you in all of your decisions, as long as you assure me you are happy."

 

Arthur's father, glad his wife had taken the first step to being the accepting one, gladly followed suit, and that was that.

 

Now knowing that Arthur was not romantically stunted (as it seemed everyone at school had believed as well), his mother took an active interest in Arthur's "love" life (as she liked to call it). Arthur almost wished she wouldn't, but then reminded himself how lucky he was to have parents so unconditionally accepting and patiently answered all her questions, though most of them were negations, since other than Eames, Arthur hadn't felt an intense desire for anyone else.

 

"So, Eames..." Arthur's mother finally said one afternoon. Arthur could tell she had been burning to speak about him all summer. She sat Arthur down and began. "You know I'm supportive, Arthur. But, I'm just not sure how quickly you should throw yourself in a relationship. Men aren't like women, you know. They have, well, more urges, and women-"

 

"Don't worry," Arthur cut in hurriedly, ears burning with the realization that he had been about to receive the talk from his mother. "Nothing is going to happen. Eames likes girls." He said it with enough certainty that his mother visibly hesitated, and Arthur took the opportunity to flee.

 

Arthur knew he should tell Eames. His parents weren't about to go boasting to the neighbors that their only son liked other boys, and Amanda had promised to keep a tight lid on the subject. No one else knew, and this suited Arthur fine. Still, Arthur felt that Eames should know. He was his only friend, and Arthur didn't want him to find out any other way.

 

When Eames returned from England, Arthur attempted to set up the opportunity to tell him. Every time he did, his throat closed up and he changed the subject. It was fear, he knew. Fear of how Eames would react. Despite his easygoing nature, and the brief moments the previous year when Eames had been particularly close, nothing guaranteed Arthur that he had an open mind. He was terrified of losing Eames and so kept putting it off.

 

For his seventeenth birthday, Eames gave him an old Wham! album. The edges were worn and the color had started to face, but otherwise it was in perfect condition. " _Make it big_ ," Arthur read as Eames put the disc in the machine.

 

"I grew up listening to them," Eames said, gently placing the needle on the first track. "And now, I am going to teach you how to dance."

 

"How to- What?" But the music had already started, and Eames was doing something… weird, with his hips. He was swaying and his feet were moving, and Arthur realized with a start that it didn't look so bad. Eames was actually a pretty good dancer. He obviously knew the song well and respected every beat, every pause.

 

"Your turn," Eames said, as what Arthur imaged was the chorus started.

 

"Oh, no. No way!" Arthur started backing up, but there was only so much space in Eames' room, and Eames was advancing forward with a hop in his step. And then Eames reached out and grabbed Arthur's hand.

 

"I'll lead," he said, and then he turned his hand, forcing Arthur to follow his lead into a turn. "Bend your knees, step with the balls of your feet. Come on, can't you feel the music moving?" Eames laughed, turning Arthur around again, and then leaving their hands up to make himself turn again. "Don't be so stiff."

 

It was awkward. Arthur wouldn't allow his body to be guided, and stepped on Eames' feet more than a dozen times. Eames laughed and kept pushing him, turning him around and telling him to let his hips move on their own accord.

 

Some of the songs were slower, but Eames changed the track and kept turning him. They danced through at least four tracks before they collapsed on Eames' bed, breathing hard and completely worn out. They were still holding hands, but Eames seemed not to have realized and Arthur wasn't about to take the initiative to let go. Eames was breathing hard, lips parted, and when he turned his head to let it fall onto the bed, staring at Arthur, he grinned simply. Arthur's breath caught. The weight of Eames' hand in his was heavy and warm, and Arthur didn't feel his thumb brushing over Eames' hand until Eames' smile froze and his eyes darkened, a sort of glazed look coming over him. The air between them was still, the music in the background was still playing, loudly and energetically, but the moment felt fragile and Arthur didn't dare move, barely even dared to breathe.

 

Eames' eyes fluttered over Arthur's face, down to his lips and back up again, but other than that he didn't move. Arthur fought to keep from licking his lips.

 

The music ended abruptly. Eames blinked and snapped his head away. He started to sit up, pulling his hand away, and Arthur's chest seized and instinct took over. His hand closed around Eames' and jerked him down. Eames fell half-on Arthur, elbow catching his gut. Arthur coughed out his breath, but before Eames could react, he caught his lips with his own.

 

He felt Eames stiffen, lips immobile against his. They had their eyes open and Eames stared at him, wide-eyed. Arthur expected him to jerk away, punch him, curse him to hell and tell him to get out of his house. He did not expect for Eames to let out a soft breath, a half-suffocated whimper, let his eyes slowly drop and press his lips even harder against Arthur's.

 

But it wasn't like he was about to start complaining or anything. Arthur sucked in a breath through his nose and melted into the kiss.

 

Arthur had never kissed before, but the dancing had allowed him to relax and he was better at letting himself go and letting someone else take control. On top of him, Eames shifted for a better position. He was still half on top of Arthur, but he placed his arm on the side of Arthur's head to support his own weight, no longer crushing him.

 

They kissed for a long time, although without any music playing in the background it was hard to estimate the exact time. When Eames finally pulled back for longer than a breath, Arthur opened his eyes. Eames' eyes were dilated and dark with lust, his mouth red and swollen and slick.

 

Arthur couldn't help himself, and reached up and captured that bottom lip with his teeth. Eames made a low broken sound, and leaned right back in for more kissing. His hands were everywhere, in Arthur's hair, cupping the back of his neck, and then moving down over his chest, stroking it through the thin fabric of his t-shirt.

 

Arthur's body felt hot and tight, like he would explode at any moment. On their own accord, his hips angled upward, brushing against Eames', and he felt Eames, long in his pants, and just as hard as him.

 

"I think I just..." Arthur swallowed thickly, head dropping back on the bed as his cock throbbed in his pants and his body vibrated with the most intense feeling of pleasure he had ever felt.

 

"What's wrong?" Eames whispered, face still so close Arthur felt his lips moving against his jaw. His face started to redden as he felt the mess in his pants cool off. He couldn't open his eyes and tell Eames. It was all horribly embarrassing. Arthur felt the tickle of hair against his face and seconds later, the gentle pressing of a hand on his inner-thigh. "Arthur, you just came in your pants." Arthur expected to be laughed at, but instead lips pressed against his, harder than before.

 

"You are so bloody hot," Eames growled, and then lifted Arthur's hand and pressed it against his own bulge. It was thick, Arthur could tell that much through the fabric, ghosting his fingers over the length of it, loving the way Eames trembled above him and moaned into his mouth. The only indication was Eames' body stiffening and a haltering groan as Eames came in his pants.

 

Eames went slack over him, arms no longer being able to hold up his weight. But Arthur didn't mind. He wrapped his arms around Eames, and reveled in the new feeling of being _allowed_  to. They stayed like that, not speaking or listening to music, not even kissing, until Arthur saw the sun had set and had to rush home for his birthday dinner. Eames lent him a clean pair of pants and walked him to the front door and then, since his parents were away for the evening, he pressed him up against the door and kissed him slowly and deeply.

 

"Happy seventeenth birthday, Arthur," he rasped, English accent even more pronounced. Arthur left before he dragged Eames back up to his room and had to make up an excuse as to why he missed his birthday with his parents.

 

  


 

 

Nothing much changed after they started going out. They agreed to stay discreet, although Eames was back to needlessly touching him in public. Knowing what he was allowed to do behind closed doors now, Arthur had less trouble telling him off and rolling his eyes in front of the others, façade of indifference easily maintained. Although sometimes he had to wait a couple of extra minutes before he could stand up.

 

They made out a lot more than before, as well. They could never quite remember the movies they went to see at the drive-in, and instead of passing the joint back and forth in Eames' room, Eames blew the smoke into Arthur's mouth, lip-synching a verse of whatever song they were listening to before leaning down and kissing Arthur.

 

It happened during one such time, when Arthur was lying on the carpet and Eames was lying on him, burnt out joint forgotten under the bed. Arthur was quite frankly rather stoned, and feeling perfect with Eames' hand slipping under his shirt and his own fingers intertwined in dirty blond shaggy hair.

 

"Mmm," Arthur mumbled a protest, hand pressing Eames just far enough back that he could talk without tasting his lips. "Record- the record's stopped," he whispered.

 

Eames stared at him, gaze disoriented and unfocused. "Don't care about the music," he hissed, hand not stopping. "I wanna fuck you."

 

It wasn't exactly the most romantic proposal ever, but Arthur's heart clenched and his dick throbbed with interest. He nodded fervently. "Yeah." He laughed and pulled Eames in with a rough grab of his collar. "Yeah, me too," he kissed him sloppily and then found the hem of the shirt to pull it off. "Fuck, me too."

 

Afterward, Eames lit another joint and put in a new record and settled back down on the carpet, half on top of Arthur and completely naked. With a pang of nostalgia, Arthur wondered if it could have been this way since last year. But Eames didn't bring it up and Arthur didn't ask. There was no use in lamenting for what could have been. Besides, it was that way now, and that was good enough for him. He grinned as Eames went to pass him the joint, but leaned in for a kiss instead.

 

**

 

He presented Eames to his parents as his boyfriend that summer. Eames had convinced his own parents that he was old enough to stay home alone, so they had left for England together. The reactions were diverse, but not entirely negative. His mother did purse her lips, but Arthur put it down to her suspecting that Arthur had lied to her before, about there being nothing going on between them because Eames was straight. He could see now how that comment appeared dubious.

 

"Wow," was Amanda's reaction, who was back from college for the summer, "how surprising." It was blatant with irony, and Eames grinned at her.

 

"Yeah, I thought Eames was heterosexual for the longest time," Arthur insisted.

 

Eames shrugged. "You are rather daft when it comes to feelings, Arthur."

 

Amanda laughed. "Isn't he though?"

 

His father smiled, encouragingly. He seemed comfortable enough with the notion of Eames dating his son. Although it may have helped that they acted as nothing more than friends. They didn't hold hands at home, or kiss. Eames, as much as he enjoyed touching and flirting openly with people, wasn't much for serious public displays of affections, which suited Arthur just fine. Especially when it concerned his family.

 

His mother made him keep his door open whenever Eames was in room, though, and always fixed a curfew whenever he went out. Arthur didn't mind. She had done the same with Amanda and her boyfriends, and he knew it was just her maternal instinct to protect him.

 

Later, when it was just the three of them in Arthur's room, Amanda seemed more somber. "Honestly, though, Arthur, I know how you've always wanted the whole traditional family shebang with a marriage and kids. So don't worry," she pointed her fingers toward herself with a 'don't you worry about a thing' self-satisfied smile. "Whenever you're ready. I'll be your surrogate." If Arthur had been drinking, he'd have spat it out all over the couch. Beside him, Eames stiffened. Amanda went on, obliviously. "I've got the nicer genes anyway. And you were always saying how we'd make the most gorgeous babies, Eames."

 

"Yeah," Eames laughed nervously, trying to catch Arthur's eyes that Arthur expertly avoided by staring at his wall. "Of course."

 

Arthur smiled tightly. "I doubt we'll need to take you up on that offer anytime soon, Ams."

 

"Well, I sure hope not! I'm not accepting any sperm until I'm out of school." She shrieked with laughter, and Arthur wondered how it was possible that his sister managed to embarrass him more than his own mother in front of his boyfriend.

 

**

 

Although Eames was out to Arthur's family, his own family was a completely different story. Arthur didn't try to push him, because he knew Eames' family, as nice and polite as they were, were the quintessentially upper-class British conservatives who would not take too kindly to news that their only son – only child, at that – was, as Eames so elegantly put it on the rare occasions the topic had come up, "an arse bandit."

 

Arthur had let the subject go. He thought that with time Eames would come around and affirm his feelings for Arthur to his parents. In hindsight, Arthur realized that the fact he never did, never even talked about it unless Arthur brought it up, should have been his first clue that something was up. But he had chosen to ignore it. For the first time in life, Arthur hadn't wanted to look at the facts and accept their logical conclusion.

 

**

 

When senior year rolled around, Eames and Arthur prepared their college applications together. Arthur was pretty sure to be accepted anywhere he chose, and Eames had his heart set on New York, so Arthur sent applications for a handful of architecture schools in the area.

 

When his replies came, Arthur called Eames over.

 

"That's great," Eames congratulated him with a quick hug.

 

"Yeah!" Arthur couldn't keep the grin off his face. "Heard from any of your schools yet?" Eames looked away and shook his head. Arthur misinterpreted. "They've probably been mailed already. You're brilliant, no way a school's going to pass you up."

 

Eames smiled and let himself be pulled into a kiss.

 

When another month passed and nearly everyone had received a reply, Arthur confronted him again. "Not even a rejection letter? That's just not normal, Eames. Did you even send your applications?"

 

They were sitting in Eames' bedroom, and Eames was fidgeting with his sheets, something he only did when he was nervous or stressed.

 

"Just tell me what's going on."

 

Eames got off the bed. "Look, Arthur. I got an acceptance letter a few weeks ago."

 

Arthur got up. "That's great! Why didn't you tell me? Which school?"

 

"Richmond Drama School."

 

"Richmond? That wasn't one of the schools we applied to together. Where is it?"

 

Eames was fixedly not looking at him, but his mouth twisted hideously before he said, "London."

 

Arthur felt like he'd received a blow to the gut, and he stumbled back onto the bed. "London," he repeated dumbly. And then it all rushed back to him and he leapt back up to his feet, driven into a wild anger. Maybe it was completely misdirected, and maybe he was angry for all the wrong reasons, but he had never felt so angry and hurt in his whole life.

 

"Are you fucking joking?" he yelled, and Eames snapped to look at him, probably more out of surprise at hearing Arthur swearing for the first time than anything. "You kept this from me? Applied in secret like I would have tried to dissuade you from doing what you want?" His throat was going raw and his eyes were stinging, but they were tears of uncontrolled rage. He wanted to lash out and punch Eames right in the face, but Eames was taller and brawnier than him now, and if he did manage to land his punch it would only be because Eames would have let him; there would be no gratification from that. "Who the fuck do you take me for?" And then he stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind him for good measure.

 

**

 

They didn't speak again for a whole month. Arthur drowned himself in work he had been putting off in order to spend more time with Eames. It wasn't hard, there was a lot of work at the Student Council with Prom coming up, and just because he had been accepted to university did not mean he no longer had any homework.

 

Sometime during the middle of the month, Arthur realized he was no longer angry at Eames, but it had been their first real fight and he had no idea how to go about making up. Besides, he stubbornly thought to himself, it had been Eames' gaffe, and so he had to take the initiative.

 

Arthur was in his room, catching up with some internet friends when he heard the knock at his door. He spun around and saw Eames slouching against the doorway, looking dejected.

 

"Hey," he said, softly.

 

Arthur slumped back in his chair. "Hi."

 

Eames stepped into the room to stand a few feet away from Arthur. "I'm sorry. I should have told you. It was shite of me. I don't know what I was afraid of. Still not."

 

Arthur was suddenly violently angry at himself, for having wasting the little time they had left. He stood and crossed the distance between them, though he didn't reach out to him. "It's okay. I probably overreacted. You should do what you want to."

 

Eames straightened himself out. "What do you want, Arthur?"

 

Arthur wanted to say "Don't go." He wanted to say "I was just about to say I love you." Instead, he said, "I want you to go."

 

Eames smiled, and reached out to take Arthur's hand. "This doesn't have to mean anything for us. I'll be back for the summer, and you can come visit me in London."

 

Arthur nodded, almost believing it. "Yeah," he grinned. "Maybe the time apart will do us some good."

 

Eames smiled, said "Maybe," and leaned in to kiss him. It was a tentative kiss, unlike any they had shared. Eames clearly sought forgiveness. Arthur slipped his fingers through Eames' belt buckle, pulling him closer, eager to show him he was.

 

"My parents don't get back until eight," he whispered between kisses.

 

Eames laughed throatily. "What a coincidence," he leered, and guided Arthur toward his bed.

 

 

**

 

Eames wanted to go to Prom as friends.

 

"I thought we could use this opportunity to tell everyone," Arthur said, when the topic came up.

 

"Our families already know, isn't that enough? Why do you want to bring everyone into it?" Eames said, frowning over his suitcase. He was leaving a few days after graduation. Seeing the suitcase made Arthur feel nauseous. He wished they had met at his place so he wouldn't have to stare at the constant reminder that their time had run out.

 

"I don't want to bring everyone into it," Arthur said, and couldn't help adding, "And only my family knows."

 

Eames turned around, arms crossed over his chest. "I don't want them, or anyone else, to know. I like things as they are. It's none of their business anyway."

 

Arthur felt that Eames was missing the point of declaring themselves a couple, but he knew there would be no victory in contradicting him. He had been on edge lately, and pushing further would only provoke his temper. Arthur did not want to fight and part on sour terms.

 

"Fine," Arthur replied sullenly, picking at the sheets, unable to help thinking that they may never make love in this bed ever again. A part of him felt that once Eames left in that plane, he wouldn't see him again either. His throat felt tight suddenly, and his jaw ached as he tried to hold in tears. Eames had turned his back again, and Arthur ached to know Eames' thoughts, his feelings on the impeding events, which were starting to feel more and more orchestrated. He didn’t know if Eames’ indifference at leaving was real, or a projection of Arthur’s desires to find reasons to hold the departure against Eames, an excuse to start a fight at any moment if he wanted to.

 

After a while of silence, Eames' turned his head toward Arthur. "Put on a record, would you?"

 

Arthur stood, wondering yet again if to Eames this separation was a distress or an assuagement.

 

**

 

Prom was bittersweet. Eames picked him up at his house, dressed sharply in his suit, though Arthur couldn't help but roll his eyes at the pink tie that Eames had insisted went _perfectly well_  with the ensemble. Arthur's mother fussed over them, taking a hundred pictures, and Arthur's dad slapped Eames gamely on the shoulder and told him to have Arthur home before sunrise. Arthur was torn between wanting to die and killing his parents.

 

Finally, he managed to drag Eames, who was way too enthusiastic about taking pictures, out of the house.

 

"My parents are so embarrassing," Arthur moaned once they were in the truck.

 

Eames grinned as he started it up. "I think they're great." Then, he put his hand on Arthur's neck and pulled him in. "Happy Prom," he whispered against his lips.

 

Prom itself kind of sucked. They couldn't hold hands and they couldn't make out like all the other couples. Sab all but hogged Eames on the dance floor, and the only time Arthur got to dance with Eames, everyone thought it was very amusing.

 

"I really want to kiss you," Arthur said in Eames' ear.

 

Eames grinned and spun him around. "Later," he said. Then a girl Arthur vaguely knew as Hilary asked Eames for a dance, and Eames all but whisked her away.

 

When later finally arrived, Eames drove them to a dark alleyway between the mall and the dry-cleaners. It was a dismal location, hardly romantic, but both of their parents were home, so Arthur wasn't about to complain. They did it in the backseat, which was more uncomfortable than anything, since it wasn't really wide enough for the both of them and Arthur's head kept banging against the door handle.

 

Afterward, Eames drove Arthur home.

 

"I don't know what I'm going to do in New York without you," Arthur said once they had arrived. He stared at his house, dreading the thought of having to leave the truck and head inside. Behind him, Eames made a noncommittal noise.

 

"I don't think we'll be able to see each other before I leave."

 

Arthur turned around. "What do you mean? You're not leaving until Thursday evening."

 

Eames swallowed. He looked as terrible as Arthur felt. Though if it was genuine regret or guilt for not having warned Arthur sooner was anyone’s guess. "My parents made plans. They want to spend as much time together as possible before I leave. They didn't tell me until this afternoon. I didn't want to ruin Prom for you."

 

He sounded apologetic, and Arthur didn't want to make things harder on the both of them, but the thought of not being able to see Eames before he left was a blow. He felt like throwing up.

 

"What, so, I'm supposed to say goodbye now? Like this. In this dump of a truck?"

 

Eames looked pained. "It's not how I wanted to do it either."

 

"If you'd told your parents about us," Arthur snapped accusingly, regretting what he was about to say already, but unable to stop himself, "I could have accompanied you to the airport, like a normal boyfriend."

 

"If I'd told my parents about us, I wouldn't have even been allowed to go to Prom," Eames snapped right back. Then the tension seeped out of him. "Don't make this any harder than it already is, Arthur. I'll call once I land, and I'll visit whenever I can."

 

Arthur looked out the windshield. Suddenly, the whole world felt too large and a second was too long. When would he be able to see Eames again? His parents would most likely use any vacation as an excuse to visit England, and how could Eames justify visiting home when his parents were in England? He couldn't very well visit for a mere _friend_ , now could he? Arthur knew, in that moment, that it would be a long, long time before Eames was anything other than a voice on the other end of the line.

 

He turned back to Eames. He felt helpless and lost in a world he had never felt so small in. He wanted to keep control of the only thing he knew. "I love you."

 

Eames blinked, surprised, and then he smiled. He leaned forward and pulled Arthur to him, pressing their lips together. Arthur let himself be pulled in, telling himself that he hadn't expected it to be said back, that he didn't even need it to be said back. Actions spoke just as loud as words, and Eames' actions had said it all from the very moment they'd kissed.

 

"I should go," Eames whispered once he pulled back.

 

Arthur nodded, and left the truck before he could change his mind and try to seduce Eames into another round of sex right in front of his house.

 

When Arthur reached the front door, he turned around to wave to Eames. Then he watched as the truck pulled away, and wondered just was the heck he was supposed to do from here on in.

  



	2. Chapter 2

Living without Eames was like not living at all. Suddenly, every pastime, every activity, felt mundane and useless, or too strenuous. Arthur spent his time lying in bed, or watching television, until finally, in August, Amanda declared that enough was enough and called a road trip to New York to change Arthur's thoughts.

 

The room Arthur had been given on campus was a double, and it felt small and cramped even though his roommate hadn't even arrived with all of his stuff yet. Taking a note of the utter lack of privacy the room offered, Arthur tried hard not to think of the cozy little apartments he'd looked at before Eames had gone off and left him.

 

Although they had agreed to keep the relationship going, Arthur had thought he'd scared Eames off with his declaration and that he had seen or heard the last of Eames. Surprisingly, Eames had called every week, sometimes as often as three times a week, and they'd talked for hours. It was almost like being together again, until Arthur rolled over for a kiss in a moment of lapse and heard the loud beeping of pressed buttons when he crushed the phone between his cheek and the bed.

 

"My roommate's a total slob," Arthur told him after the guy finally moved in. "He's always leaving stuff lying around, loose papers on his desk, under a pile of books. And he's always  _squinting_ at everything. Seriously, I'm not sure he's even ever heard of the concept of glasses or contact lenses."

 

Eames chuckled on the other line. "What's the bloke's name?" His accent had gotten thicker over the few months he'd been there; at first, Arthur had been so surprised that he hadn't understood the new curve of consonants. Now, though, he found the voice a soothing melody he could melt into. He often found himself grinning while listening to Eames talk, even if what was being said was not particular funny or even cause for smiling.

 

"Dominic Cobb. Total weirdo. I don't even know how he made it to adulthood, let alone third year of architectural school, without walking off a cliff."

 

"Maybe he's a hidden genius."

 

Arthur thought of Cobb's tattered yellow sweater and his drooping eyelids as he read over a creased and stained document because it had been serving as a coaster for a week, and snorted. "Please. If a guy like that can get on the honor roll three years standing, then I've got my career in my pocket."

 

By the end of the first semester, Arthur felt like the only thing he lived for was the ring of the phone, hoping to hear Eames on the other line.

 

His head teacher had pulled him aside a week before the finals. "Your work is good, Arthur," he'd began, staring down at his latest essay on Jorn Utzon. Arthur could sense the conjunction coming, and he could tell by the crease between his teacher's eyes and the downward tilt of his head, not meeting his eyes, it would not be 'and’ followed by ‘you're one of the best students of this academy.' "But, I'm not sure you're cut out for this line of work."

 

To be honest, Arthur had been having nagging thoughts along this trend for a few months now. Although his grades were decent, and most likely more than satisfactory for any average student, they were the lowest they had ever been in his life. He didn't think he was producing work of a lesser quality than the other students, but somehow, all his grades stagnated at the same point and he could not seem to pass the bar from 'acceptable' work to 'outstanding' quality. Only obstinacy and a personal feeling of failure if he were to accept that he had chosen the wrong path kept the thoughts at bay. Hearing them said aloud formed a bulge of dread and fear inside of Arthur's throat.

 

"It's not even the end of the first semester of the first year," Arthur pleaded. "Don't you think it's a bit early to be making such calls?"

 

Mr. Franks finally raised his head to meet Arthur's gaze. "Any other student," he heaved his shoulders, "maybe. I'd have let it play it out. But, you... you're a high-level student, Arthur. I saw your records; I know what you're capable of. You like clean-cut edges, numbers and logic and symmetrical structures. You thought that's what you would find in architecture. But this is an art, there's an abstract dimension to this world that you haven't been able to grasp."

 

Arthur nodded fervently. "Sure. Abstraction. I can work with that, honestly. I know all about Delaunay and Matisse."

 

Mr. Franks had a sad look about him when he shook his head. "I just don't think you have enough imagination to create on your own, Arthur."

 

**

 

"Who does that old bastard think he is to make such a call?!" Arthur yelled over the phone. He felt momentarily like an asshole for taking his anger out on Eames who couldn't help how the stupid teachers graded his assignments or called shots on his future, but then he remembered that Eames had chosen to leave him for another continent across the ocean and deserved at least part of the anger directed at him.

 

On the other end, Eames chuckled. "That you lack imagination is not news to me, Arthur." His voice was calm and low, hardly above a whisper, as though he was purposely controlling it.

 

"Are you okay? Where are you right now? On the underground?" He doubted it, since it was completely quiet on Eames' end. Besides, it was ten at night in London, and Eames was usually at home. It was five o'clock for Arthur, and he was walking home from class. It was a long walk, but it was the highlight of his week: Friday nights were the only times their schedules overlapped, and Eames kept him company as he walked.

 

"Not the kind you're thinking of." There was a muffled movement, whispers, more than one voice from the sound of it. Arthur frowned. Eames was usually home at this time. Sometimes he had a few friends over, but they never made much effort to keep quiet, especially since they probably had no idea Eames was talking to his boyfriend. Eames probably told him it was just a friend on the line.

 

He was about to ask, with irrational jealousy, who he was with. Eames had missed their last two meets, and Arthur had especially hoped to have him all to himself tonight, when Eames beat him to the punch. "Listen, Arthur, now's not the greatest time, actually. Forgot we were Friday, made some plans with a few mates. What you say we postpone to Wednesday?"

 

"Uh." Arthur wanted to tell Eames where his friends could go. This was  _their_  time, goddamnit, and Arthur needed to vent. He knew he was being pettish, and he hated himself for it. He cleared his throat. "Yeah, of course, no problem. Have fun with your friends."

 

"Yeah." He could hear the smile in Eames' voice. He'd have felt better if he'd sounded the least bit remorseful about the situation. "Ta."

 

"See you," Arthur replied, even though the line had already gone dead.

 

The walk home was very quiet.

 

**

 

Arthur was determined to prove Mr. Franks wrong. He wasn't a genius for nothing, and he would substantiate that there was more to him than straight lines and perfect angles. So, he sucked up his pride and went to the only person he knew could help him: Dominic Cobb.

 

Despite first appearances, Cobb wasn't such a bad guy. Over the course of several months, Arthur had come to accept Cobb's brilliancy, though Arthur did doubt at times that architecture was really the only place it shone. After a month of the only contact being Arthur coolly telling him when his mess was seeping over onto his side of the room, Cobb made a wavering attempt to make friends and Arthur had taken pity on him and allowed it.

 

They weren't exactly friends, but their relationship had budded past the distantly polite into something a little more comfortable - roommates on good terms, Arthur thought. Not that they were in the same room all that often, to be honest. Cobb was usually with his girlfriend, an exquisite French beauty by the name of Mallorie Miles.

 

Arthur had actually first met Mal on the first day of class, when she had taken the seat next to him and then proceeded to be the most out-of-this world character he had ever met. She had all the grace and sensuality expected of in a French exchange student, but she stood out even more through a vibe of mystery and aloofness. Looking to replace the void Eames had left, Arthur felt drawn to her complexity, drawn by the desire to work her out, to understand and to be a part of a world he was sure was so extraordinary he could never dream of its true nature. This desire only strengthened when Cobb introduced her to Arthur as his girlfriend. Arthur had remained dumbfounded for several minutes before stammering out some kind of wondering about how they had met, when in truth all he wanted to know was how a girl like Mal could have ever gone for a guy like Cobb.

 

He thought he understood, though, months later, when he tentatively asked Cobb for a few pointers on how to improve his class notes, and Cobb had enthusiastically sat down and talked through the night. Arthur thought he understood then, what Mr. Franks had been saying. Arthur liked architecture, but he didn't even hold a tenth of an ounce of the passion Cobb possessed.

 

They became closer after that. Some wind had changed, and they saw more of each other now. Mal began coming over to the dorm, instead of Cobb always going to her place, and soon she was coming even when Cobb wasn't around.

 

"He thought you were some pretentious stick in the mud," Mal told Arthur one afternoon while digging through their miniature fridge. They had been discussing the latest Mies van der Rohe award bestowed to Peter Zumthor, so the comment came somewhat out of nowhere.

 

Arthur didn't have to ask who she was talking about though. "Fair enough, I thought he was a pretentious slob who had somehow managed to fraud his way up the years."

 

Mal smiled at him. "Yet you were always so polite. You are a hard man to figure out, Arthur." She came back to the bed with a can of coke, and sat cross-legged across from him. The irony of the comment made him grin. If only she knew how mutual the feeling was. "Do you not have any other friends on campus? We never see you with anyone else. A girlfriend, perhaps?"

 

Arthur looked out the window over Mal's shoulder. He didn't know what it was, maybe the feeling of having found a kindred spirit that he had never thought would happen again made him reluctant to lie, or maybe he was just tired of having to hide himself. "I have a boyfriend, actually. In England, studying."

 

It felt strange, saying the words to someone other than his family for the first time. No one else at school had known, or had even suspected. Sab had asked Eames to Prom, for crying out loud. Still, the world continued spinning on its axis, and Mal didn't spit out her soda or curse him to hell.

 

"I can't wait to see him," she said with a small, non-judgmental smile.

 

Arthur snorted. "Yeah. Me too."

 

**

A few days later, Arthur looked up Mal's history. Or in other words, he broke into the school's server to read her student records. She came from a French bourgeois family. Other than that, her record was straightforward and clean, just like any other average American student. He frowned. Something didn't feel right though. Something about Mal made words like 'common' and 'standard' appear absurd and distorted when applied to her. He dug deeper. He found the hidden truth quickly enough, though it hardly felt like a secret: her father was an ex-military man, retired, who now taught architecture in Paris. He couldn't understand why that would have been covered up, but from what Arthur gathered, Cobb had gone on a year exchange to Paris, met Mal through his teacher, and she had followed him back. It was all gushingly romantic, really, and Arthur couldn't help but feel a pang of resentment at their commitment. It was at times such as these that Arthur knew Eames' return to London had more to do with Arthur than Eames had let on; Eames had loved America too much, and he had been accepted to all his university choices in America. There was no valid reason as to why he would have chosen to leave, other than to get away from Arthur.

 

Miserably, Arthur closed the tabs on his browser. He felt uncharacteristically guilty for looking up Mal's life behind her back, as though by resorting to such an underhanded method to extract information, he was looking at the answer key.

 

He called Eames that night, though it wasn't Friday and two in the morning in London.

 

"Where have you been?" Arthur asked before any sort of greeting when Eames groggily answered the phone. He felt irritable and jealous and angry that Eames hadn't called or picked up the phone in three weeks. He felt an empty yearning; he hadn't wanted to see Eames so much, to hold him and kiss him, in months. Eames had been meant to come to New York for the winter, he had even bought his ticket and everything, but then his parents had shown up for a surprise visit and everything had been ruined. Most of all, though, Arthur wanted to know that Eames hadn't gone to London to get away from him. He wanted to know that things between them were fine, that they were not falling apart.

 

"Hello, Arthur, lovely to hear from you. It's been a while, how are you?" Eames replied sardonically in a low drawl.

 

"And whose fault is that, exactly?" Arthur snapped. He was picking a fight, which was contrary to what he really wanted: listen to Eames talk, listen to his laugh, maybe have a bout of phone sex. They had been getting better at it, before all communication between them had seemed to cease.

 

"I've been busy." His voice is hard now, awake, knowing Arthur wasn't going let him off that easily. "Life tends to happen, Arthur. I can't always be at your beck and call, same time same place, just for you."

 

"It's once a week, for Chrissake, Eames. I'm hardly asking for your hand in marriage."

 

"Arthur, it's two in the bloody morning."

 

"Well, it's apparently the only time I can get a hold of you. You're never  _there_ when I call. Unless you are, but you just don't pick up." Tears of anger burned his eyes, but Arthur wiped them away irritably.

 

"Arthur, I cannot do this right now, I’m bloody exhausted. I'll call you tomorrow, all right?"

 

Arthur felt wound up so tight he was about to snap. This wasn't what he had signed up for. It didn't feel right and it didn't feel normal, either. But he was tired, emotionally more so than physically, and he figured he owed it to Eames, and to  _them_ , to give him one last chance. "Okay," he said softly. "Call me tomorrow morning."

 

**

 

Eames didn't call the next morning, and Arthur had class in the afternoon. He hesitated, earnestly considered skipping, but Cobb was absorbed in building blueprints, a sure sign he would be there for hours still, so Arthur went.

 

He came back to find Mal and Cobb whispering between them. He could tell by the fast-paced dialog and the uncontrollable grin on Cobb's face that something exciting must have happened. Mal was the one who heard him first and jabbed Cobb in the ribs to quiet him. Arthur didn't mind the secrecy. They were often muttering between themselves, and he supposed that it was their right as a couple. But it annoyed him today. He didn't want to know what they were saying so much as he wanted to be in their place.

 

"Did anyone call for me?" he asked.

 

Cobb wasn't listening. His grin was wide still, and his eyes seemed to shine. He was standing by the time Arthur had closed the door, and had already gathered his jacket by the time he spoke. "We've got to head out, Arthur. Mal's father is arriving at the airport, so we've got to go pick him up."

 

"Oh, is there holidays at university in France at the moment?" he asked without thinking.

 

Mal paused. "How do you know my father works at the university?"

 

"Y-you must have mentioned," Arthur faltered. "Or Cobb. I can't recall."

 

Mal and Cobb exchanged a slow look, but Cobb gave a small shrug and a sheepish smile. He couldn't remember, so he assumed he must have let it slip. Mal rolled her eyes. "Come on, we don't want to be late. See you later, Arthur." She pecked him on the cheek and then rushed Cobb out the door.

 

"Bye," Arthur muttered, rushing to his phone to check his messages. Nothing. He did his homework and waited for the call, but the phone remained silent throughout the entire evening.

 

It rang three times during the week, but it was never Eames.

 

Finally, Arthur picked up the phone halfway through the next week. Unsurprisingly, he landed on the answering machine. 'It's me," he said. He felt strangely calm about what he was about to do. Numb, perhaps, like the finality of his actions had not yet impacted and when they would, the consequences would be disastrous. As it was, he felt hazy, as though he was walking behind a veil of purpose and all else was blurry and unimportant. "I don't think this will come as a surprise to you, and maybe I'm not aware of some unwritten memo which dictates such situations, but I need it said. This isn't working out. I can't go on waiting for you to call and feeling disappointed when you don't, again. I'd have preferred to this with you on the other line, but it's kind of hard when you never pick up. I'm not angry, and I'll always cherish our memories. So, thanks for everything, and good luck with your studies and the rest."

 

When Arthur hung up the phone, he told himself that he wasn't disappointed and that he wasn't surprised. He told himself that this was what he had expected to happen all along.

 

But he had never been very good at lying to himself.

 

**

 

They were sitting at the café close to the school, and the sun was shining on Arthur's face. Mal was bringing out the drinks: Arthur's no sugar, no cream, or milk coffee, Cobb's all-American pint of beer, and a fancy cocktail for herself.

 

Arthur reached into his bag for the money to pay her back, and his fingers brushed the spine of a book. He lifted the book up just high enough to see the title:  _A Pattern Language_. He frowned. He had finished the book three days ago, but he couldn't recall why he had packed it in his bag that morning.

 

"Don't bother, darling. This is on me." Mal waved a hand Arthur's way when she saw him rummaging through his bag. She smiled brilliantly at him, and Arthur sat back in his chair, a bit perplexed.

 

Cobb was grinning at Mal, and it really was such a nice day outside, for mid-February. Though the sun was bright in the clear sky, it brought little warmth, and Arthur was surprised the outside tables had been put up. Maybe Cobb or Mal had asked. They did bring them out upon customer request on nice days, but Arthur couldn't remember.

 

"You have been acting strangely, these last few days, Arthur," Mal began after a quick look Cobb's way. Cobb sobered up, as if on cue, but Arthur could still tell there was a sort of thrill about him.

 

Arthur had broken up with Eames two weeks ago, but he had yet to tell Mal or Cobb. Somehow, he had thought that they wouldn't notice. He talked so rarely of Eames, the only proof they had that he actually existed was the rare times they had come home to find Arthur on the phone with him. Arthur thought he hid his grief exceptionally well. He hadn't even cried. He supposed that he felt like they had broken up weeks before the actual event – sometimes he even felt as though their break-up had occurred the night he’d watched Eames’ truck drive away without him. It touched him that they had noticed. He smiled.

 

"I'm fine," and it wasn't a lie. He reached for his glass, but miscalculated the distance and his drink went spilling all over the table. Arthur gave a small cry as the scalding hot coffee spilled all over the table, but Mal and Cobb thankfully pulled back in time. Arthur turned around to catch the attention of a waiter, to have him bring them napkins, and froze when he saw that he had the attention of  _everybody_. Even the person across the street had stopped to stare at him.

 

"Er," he said. "Sorry?" Talk about awkward.

 

"It's fine, it's fine," Mal was saying behind him, and when Arthur turned around, she had a handful of napkins and was sponging up the mess. The people around them resumed their normal routine.

 

"Okay, that was just weird." Arthur put his empty cup upright again. Cobb no longer looked cheerful, his mouth a straight line and his eyes a half circle beneath lowered lids. "Guys, what's going on, you're starting to worry me."

 

"Arthur," Mal leaned forward, her voice dropping to a hush. "What do you remember of today?"

 

Arthur frowned. "What do you mean? I woke up, had a blueberry muffin for breakfast, and then went to class."

 

"How did you get here?" Cobb asked.

 

People around them were walking slower, glancing their way. Arthur wondered what was up with them today.

 

"Uh," he searched his mind, recalling his morning's routine up to his architectural theory lecture class, but everything after that remained a blank. He couldn't even remember when and where he had met Cobb and Mal. At the campus? Their dorm? Or here? "I'm not sure..." He rubbed his temple. The light was abnormally bright, and he could feel a headache coming on. People were staring, and Arthur wanted to go home. "What's going on, do I have something on my face or what?"

 

Mal smiled. "No. You're just dreaming, that's all."

 

That's when the café blew up, and a shard of glass came flying toward Arthur's head.

 

**

 

When he woke up in the armchair of a chic hotel he had never been in before, his eye throbbing dully with the memory of the impact and his heart hammering with the memory of realizing he was going to die, Arthur rounded on Cobb and punched him right in the face.

 

"What the fuck was that?" he hollered, and then cradled his fist in his other hand because okay, he wasn't the most physical guy out there, and the punch had probably hurt him just as much as it had hurt Cobb.

 

"Sorry," Cobb replied thickly, checking to see if his nose was bleeding. It wasn't. "That wasn't supposed to happen."

 

"Which part?" Arthur snapped, but he could feel the anger and fear starting the ebb out, replaced by a budding curiosity. "The part where the cafe blew up? The part where I thought I was going to die by a shard of glass slicing my skull open? Or the part where we were sharing a  _fucking_ lucid dream together?"

 

Cobb grimaced. "The middle one, actually. I thought I had better control on the explosion than that."

 

"This can't be happening." Arthur didn't know if he was being incredulous or gullible, because he hoped it  _was_ happening so he could hear more. He turned around to Mal, but she was already behind him, taking his hands in hers and steering him to a chair.

 

That's where they told him about dreamshare. The Portable Automated Somnacin IntraVenous Device (PASIV for short, she said); a box roughly the size of a suitcase, which resembled more a square of discarded wires rather than a multi-billion dollar project being secretly funded by the American, British, French, and Israeli armies. Mal told him about Somnacin, the powerful drug that allowed them to enter the comatose state in real life, but be lucid and functioning in the dream world.

 

If Arthur hadn't survived from an immediately fatal injury just half an hour ago, he would have thought that Mal and Cobb had officially gone stark-raving mad. That, or they were running by him some kind of science-fiction scenario they wanted to incorporate into a novel.

 

As it was, Arthur believed every single word they said, and his fingertips tingled. He felt a brush of excitement stirring inside of him that he hadn't felt in years, not even when he had been accepted to architecture school. "How did you guys get a hold of the machine?" If the project was really as top-secret as they claimed, then they probably had Interpol out looking for them as they spoke.

 

Mal's mouth formed a grim line. "My dad," she said.

 

Arthur frowned. "I thought he retired from the military."

 

Mal almost smiled at that. "And where did you get  _that_ information from?" Arthur opened his mouth, and then realized he had shot himself in his own foot. He had never told Mal or Cobb about his exceptional skills on the computer. Mal did smile then, soft and reassuring. "It's fine, Arthur. We kind of figured a while ago that you had some...way of knowing things that weren't meant to be known. This is why we're showing you this. We want you onboard."

 

Arthur didn't even know what was on the board. He didn't know what the job was, what sort of commitment or sacrifices it entailed. He didn't know the risks involved (though he could gather the big points, from what he had experienced and heard so far). He knew nothing about the safety measures or risks, and he sure as hell didn't know what the ultimate goal of it all was. All he knew was that this felt right. Here was the biggest mystery he would ever discover, and if he didn't get onboard, Arthur would never forgive himself. He could feel it in his gut. It didn't feel like the most normal career path (or hell, even hobby, if that's what it turned out to be), but perhaps it was about time that Arthur admitted to himself that maybe he had just never been cut out to be normal.

 

He looked at Mal, then he looked at Cobb. They were both serious, and Arthur could feel the tightness in his own face as he leveled with them both and gave a short, controlled nod. "I'm onboard," he said.

 

**

 

After the initial trauma of thinking his skull had been split open by a large shard of window glass, Arthur took to dreamshare remarkably well, to the point that his life began to revolve around dreamsharing.

 

Cobb showed him how to build in dreams, and suddenly school felt so mundane and trivial. In the dream world, the imagination could truly be let to run wild. Cobb built skyscrapers which would have toppled over due to the laws of gravity in real life. He showed Arthur, but somehow he still couldn't get the art down right. The people in the dreams - the projections, Cobb and Mal called them - always turned on Arthur faster than on Cobb and Mal when he built.

 

"Forget all the rules you've been taught," Cobb told him after Arthur had received a swing of a metal bat to the head. Arthur rubbed the back of his head. There was no blood or even pain, only the throbbing sensation of the impact which had lasted seconds. Arthur didn't have much trouble with dying. It always happened quickly, and more or less painlessly. He found that he was good at detaching himself from the reality of what it implied. After all, it  _was_ only a dream. "

 

Gravity, physics, those don't apply, Arthur. But, don't forget, it's a dream. Stop focusing on the details. There needs to be a fuzzy feeling that something is off. It's not perfect, and if focused on too much, the flaws will become apparent. The details must only be noticeable up close. Further away, and you need to make them blurry."

 

Telling Arthur not to focus on details was like telling him not to focus on the elephant taking up all the space in the closet. Gravity and physics, in the long run, he could do without, but it unnerved him not to see the cracks in a hundred-year-old building, or to know that the posts of the white picket fence down the street were not of an equal distance from each other.

 

They didn't take on clients, at first. Though they had known about dreamsharing for over a year now, and had tried it out more than a handful of times when they had been in France, Cobb and Mal were still novices in the field, and had never had their own PASIV.

 

They discovered the nooks and crannies of the world together. They learned that the moods of the projections varied greatly on the environment of the dream. Real places linked to bad memories made them more hostile, more prone to murder on the slightest hint of an intruder, and vice-versa for real places linked to good memories. For that reason, Cobb encouraged them to discover the PASIV in what he liked to call "neutral dreams," dreams where all the buildings and landscapes were original designs, though possibly inspired from a wide variety of real places. Arthur found that he was even worse at this creation than he was at recreating real places with less detail.

 

Mal's father, Stephen Miles, had acquired the PASIV for her so that she and Cobb could run their tests separately and independently from the military. Ultimately, he was the one who tipped them off about extracting, and asked them to give it a shot. In a nut shell, extraction was discovering and possessing someone's secret in the dream.

 

At first, they only had each other to practice on. It was fine, when they were just learning the ropes of the concept, but soon it became much too easy. They knew each other backwards and sideways, and came to rely on well-known ticks and tricks to get the other to open up.

 

Miles was the one who sent their first client their way. That's when everything finally came together for Arthur.

 

**

 

The client was a wealthy businessman who knew Miles through his investments in the military. He had strong suspicions that his daughter's fiancé was only with her for the benefits of her contacts and wealth, but every time he brought up the subject, she felt personally attacked. During their last fight, she had threatened to break off all ties if he did not stop with his outlandish, unfounded accusations. So now he wanted concrete proof to show her, but all the private investigators he had hired had come back empty-handed. They were his last resort.

 

Arthur wasn't sure how he fit into the mold of the team at that time. They had agreed that Mal would be the main architect, though Cobb would be there for help and advice if needed, while Cobb would take on the main bulk of directing the extraction. Arthur shifted to the side, feeling awkward and left out, wondering if he was going to be asked to sit this one out, when Cobb turned to him.

 

"Arthur, we need you on research. Find out everything and anything about this guy. I'm sure Payne -" their client, "-hired the top PIs, but even they can't get to the places you can. I want to know everything about Hall’s childhood, his education. I want to know what motivates him, his exact schedule, when he eats, when he sleeps, and when he sneezes. We have to know this guy as well as we know each other, and we only have a week to do it."

 

Mal was all but bouncing on the balls of her feet, and even Arthur oddly found Cobb's authoritarian tone to be motivating.

 

They threw themselves into their work. Arthur forewent working on his final essays in favor of spending an entire night researching on anything that could prove Sean Hall had ulterior motives in marrying Greg Payne's daughter, Ayla.

 

At their meeting, the next morning, Arthur slapped down a 50-page thick compilation of his findings on the table. Cobb kind of gawked at it, but Mal smirked, as though she had known what to expect from Arthur all along.

 

"Sean Hall comes from a very modest background," Arthur summarized for them. "His parents ran a grocery store together until they divorced and his father enrolled in the army. Sean was about fifteen years old, at the time. Three years later, his father died during a training drill. The official report said that he mishandled the weapon, causing it to backfire. Rumors claimed that it was a weapon malfunction. Whatever the reason, the affair was never pursued. My guess is that the family was given a hefty sum of money to not make a scene. A month later, though, the entire line of weaponry was recalled to the manufacturer and discontinued."

 

Cobb let out a grunt of understanding. "So, Sean never believed the official report, obviously, and the hush money only fuelled this train of thought."

 

"Exactly. Sean went into the weapons business after that, as a weapons regulator. He came out top of his class, with grades never seen before. He got his pick of career, obviously. He chose to be on the board of military weapons regulations."

 

"How does this link to Payne?"

 

"It doesn't explicitly. Not officially, anyway. Not until I found out that the manufacturers had wanted to do some more testing on the weapon, unsure if it was ready for distribution, but Payne was anxious to see the profits rolling in and forced their hand. The affair was really well covered up, I almost missed it myself. I have no idea how Sean caught wind of this situation, but he must have. Everything in his career steps and personal life now, shows him trying to get close to Payne and his family."

 

"All right. So, we have cause and motive." Cobb picked up the file that Arthur had put together, looking highly intimidated. "Good job, Arthur. Now, how do we go about forcing Sean to show us what his intentions are?"

 

**

 

The job was a smashing success, if not a bit depressing. Sean was on his way out of his office, on his way to a meet Ayla when he was arrested, or so the dream went. Arthur and Cobb flipped their badges to Sean and then escorted him to the police car. He protested right up until Arthur left the interrogation room, replaced by Mal. She shared Ayla's dark good looks, and though that was where their resemblance ended, it was often more than enough for Hall as the dreamer to make the connection to the person he had been thinking of in real life before going under.

 

"What's this all about?" Sean snapped, patience worn thin since the car ride. His eyes found Mal and he lingered there, hoping for a reply.

 

"Don't look at her," Cobb said, as Mal slapped down a tape recorder and took the seat opposite Sean with unusual force. "She's the bad cop here."

 

"We have evidence of what you were planning on doing," Mal's voice was thickly-accented by anger, "to Ayla."

 

Sean froze for a second, then he looked confused. "What are you talking about? I'm going to be marrying that woman. Why would I want to hurt my fiancée?"

 

Mal shared a look with Cobb, who cocked his head, and she snorted in disbelief. Then she reached over and turned on the recorder.

 

The thing about dreams was that they built the carcass of the gun. Molded nice and realistically, so that when the mark entered, he provided the ammunition through his memories. But it was his subconscious that pulled the trigger. The thing about weapons, though, was that sometimes they are faulty. And sometimes they backfire. As Sean was so well-placed to know.

 

Arthur held his breath. He was on the other side of the glass, watching the scene: he could see Sean staring down in confusion at the recorder, and he could hear the soft static silence as the recorder tape began, and thought, for a moment, that their gun had backfired.

 

Then they heard voices, slightly distorted by the bad recording, but recognizable nonetheless.

 

" _I want that fucking pig to bleed_ ," Sean was saying, lips popping on the harsh consonants. " _I want him to feel the same pain I did. He murdered my father, you know._ " So, he was talking to someone, Arthur noted. They needed a name though. Without a name, they would have nothing concrete to give to Payne.

 

There was a disinterested grunt from the second person. " _Is this the girl, Ayla?_ " There must have been a nod of confirmation from Sean, because the nasally voice added: " _Pretty little bit. What a shame._ " Then he cleared his throat, and any sympathy for Ayla’s life was lost, or discarded. " _What shall we want done with her, then?_ "

 

" _Make her disappear_ ," Sean snarled meanly. " _And then deliver her dead body to his doorstep._ " Arthur's blood ran cold. Some people were just fucking animals. A part of him had always hoped that this idea was just fodder for a good movie. But now he had proof with his own ears and eyes that they existed.

 

The man hummed. " _Such demands do not come cheap._ "

 

" _Price is not a problem,_ " Sean replied. " _Her life insurance money will cover it nicely_." The other man must have done something then, or looked a certain way, because Sean grew impatient and vile again. " _Don't pretend you're better than me. What are you but a lapdog anyway? I want to see Crain._ " Arthur's head snapped up. They had a name. Crain. It was flimsy, but enough to go on if Arthur had to make do. Thankfully, in his arrogance, Sean continued. " _I want to see Crain Molt myself_."

 

" _You do not see Molt. That was the deal_ ," the other replied steadily, as though he heard such insults every day. Maybe he did. " _Or is there no deal, now?_ "

 

There was a pause, a hesitation, and then Sean said: " _We have a deal. See that it is done two weeks after the wedding._ " The wedding had been planned for July 4th; July 18th was the anniversary of his father's death. The tape was silent now, and all the blood had drained from Sean's face. They had him.

 

They told Payne the name of the hitman who had been hired: Arthur had looked into it and assured the client that, for the right price, the deal could be reversed. Molt had that kind of reputation.

 

Payne smiled humorlessly, and handed them a check which Cobb politely accepted, though he wouldn't look at it until Payne had left. "I won't forget this." Payne nodded to the three of them stiffly before leaving the room. Only then did Cobb flip over the check and sputtered all over it.

 

"A hundred and fourteen thousand." A clean thirty-eight thousand for each of them, Arthur calculated instantly. He felt a slow grin form, which he shared with Mal. Who needed a degree?! This had only been their first job, and not only had it been more exciting than any career real life had to offer, but the debuting payout was generous.

 

Cobb seemed to read his mind. He gave Arthur a hearty slap on the shoulder. "And it's only the beginning," he laughed, handing the check to Mal, as though the authenticity of it could only be verified by her.

 

They went out to celebrate. They went to the loudest bar they could find, and shouted with the best of them as they tipped back countless glasses. It wasn't until it was nearing two in the morning that Mal slicked back Cobb's hair and leaned into his ear. Arthur couldn't hear them, but he could see the shapes of her lips as she articulated _'Let's head back, baby._ '

 

Arthur walked out with them, but slowed as they veered toward the bus stop which would take them to Mal's dorm.

 

"You coming?" Cobb's words were slurred, and he was leaning heavily on Mal, but Arthur knew he wasn't as drunk as he let on.

 

Arthur shook his head. "You guys go back. I'll see you tomorrow."

 

There was a short silence while Mal stared at Arthur and Arthur stared at Cobb, who smiled dumbly back, still riveted by the day's success. Mal disentangled herself from Cobb's grip and hugged Arthur. "You be careful, now. Do you hear me?" she said firmly in his ear, breath warm and accent comforting. "Stay safe."

 

A lump formed in Arthur's throat as he nodded. He honestly hadn't thought she'd connected the dots that far. She had figured out about Eames, but he hadn't thought she'd known about the bars. About the other men, the succession of shaggy-haired brunets with cocky grins and broad shoulders, because he had given up, but had not stopped yearning.

 

Mal kissed his cheek, lips cool and still slick from her last drink. The nights were hot now, but the warmth Mal gave him was a different kind. Arthur never wanted to let go. But she stepped back, and he let his arms fall.

 

"Call in the morning," she ordered. Then she stopped in her turn and grinned at him. "Or afternoon."

 

That night, he went home with a muscled brunet named Edward From Manchester. He knew that what he was doing wasn't all that healthy. It wasn't helping him forget in the least. But he wasn't trying to forget. He knew there was no way he ever could, so why try to fight an impossible battle? From the seven-odd torturous months Arthur had lived without Eames, he had come to realize that remembering while being sexually frustrated was worse than remembering with his hormones sated. The sex wasn't amazing; no one would replace Eames and everything he had been able to do with that damned mouth and those hands of his, and granted Arthur held not even a trace of the emotional bond he'd had with Eames with the men he now went with, but they were attractive and turned him on, and Arthur knew his body well enough to realize what it needed and provided it.

 

He hoped that, one day, he would be able to close his eyes when he kissed and not see a grinning dirty-blond with a cocky grin revealing a row of crooked teeth behind plush lips. But until then, Arthur would do what he had to in order to keep going without snapping.

 

**

 

Their next client contacted them directly. They had come highly recommended, he said, and he was willing to pay.

 

"It's not like he had a wide range to select from in the first place," Mal told them after the man had left the briefing. "Other than the military's PASIVs and ours, there are three PASIVs that have gone rogue since the operation's beginning. One was faulty, and as for the other two, well … they have three of the world's biggest governments hunting for them. They go to their clients, and not the other way around. There's no way to know if they're operating at all."

 

Cobb tapped a pencil against the table. "We need to find them. There's an underground community, that's for sure. Not knowing who our competitors are could be dangerous, especially if word is getting out. Your father has protected us until now, Mal, but even he will be powerless to stop the military if they catch wind of our PASIV."

 

Mal hesitated. "Papa knows of one, who works underground. If we met with him, maybe it could open the gateway to others. I would like for us to have our own chemist as well, in case Papa is unable to provide us with Somnacin in the future."

 

Arthur listened silently to their musings. He agreed with Mal, they would have to break off their ties with Miles sooner or later. The arrival of their latest client unnerved him. Miles hadn't known anything of the man when Mal had called him, which meant that they were getting an independent reputation. It would be dangerous to be so dependent on one so close to the military for much longer, both for them and for Miles.

 

Cobb agreed. "We'll start off small," he said. "Do you think your dad could set us up to meet with this guy? What's his name?"

 

Mal nodded. "I will call him tonight. I believe his name is Nash."

 

**

 

That summer, Arthur went home for Amanda's wedding. He had met Brad, the groom, a few months ago when he and Amanda had come to New York to see him, and he had liked him well enough. He'd still done a thorough background check on him when Amanda had announced their engagement. He was a decent guy. Arthur gave Amanda his seal of approval, but she just laughed and pulled him into a hug.

 

Arthur hugged her tightly, tears on the brink of his lashes.

 

"Don't fucking cry," Amanda ordered, punching him meanly on the shoulder. For a petite girl, barely 5"5' in a white lace wedding dress, she had one heck of a right hook. "If you cry, I'll cry, and then my makeup will be ruined."

 

Arthur grinned, and leaned down to peck her cheek. He loved her so much in that moment, a part of him wanted to pack her up and run away with her, put her somewhere high and unreachable so that she could never be hurt. "He better make you happy. Or I'll have to hurt him."

 

Amanda snorted very inelegantly. "Uh, have you  _seen_ Brad, little brother?"

 

She had a point. Brad was a rugby player, with large shoulders and thick thighs. Still, despite his intimidating build, there was something soft in his face, and something innocent in his eyes, which betrayed his young age and proved his gentle nature. Arthur rolled his eyes. "I know people."

 

Amanda laughed, not believing him. Then, she sobered. "I really hope you'll be this happy, one day," she said, softly. Arthur had told her about Eames. She had been the only person he'd told, and she'd listened wholeheartedly and hadn't fed him any clichéd bullshit about how Arthur was better off without him. Arthur loved her for that.

 

"Yeah." He thought of Eames wearing a white tux, and smiled. "Yeah, me too."

 

"You will find someone," she said, and Arthur loved her even more because her voice held no room for contradiction and he knew that, unlike him, Amanda didn't doubt the truth of her words.

 

"Come on." He brushed a curled strand of hair behind her ear. "You're keeping everyone waiting." Amanda had thrown all of her bridesmaids out of the room when Arthur had arrived. Arthur knew they were all tittering impatiently outside the door.

 

"All right." Amanda grinned, and leaned in for another quick hug. "Wish me luck."

 

Arthur watched her run to the door in her white stiletto heels, and knew he didn't have to.

 

**

 

That summer, Arthur also told his mother that he wasn't going back to university for his second year. He had already decided this long before the final exams of the second semester, but he hadn't want to tell his mother such news by the phone.

 

She was shocked, but rushed to comfort him. She agreed that he should take a year or two to try and 'find himself,' she said. Arthur wanted to tell her that he had found himself, that he'd found his calling in life, what he had been meant to do. He didn't, though, and let her hug him.

 

He told Eames' mom when they bumped into each other at the supermarket and she greeted him with a wide smile, remembering him as Eames' childhood friend. He told her that he and Eames had unfortunately lost touch a few months ago, and that university just wasn't cutting it for him. She wished him the best of luck finding his path, and went to pay for her groceries.

 

Eames called him a week later. "I talked to my mum. She told me you weren't going back for a second year of uni." It wasn't a question, but a reproach.

 

Hearing his voice was enough to make Arthur's throat tighten and his heart stretch. He'd missed it, he realized, like a traitor's knife to his gut. He irrationally felt guilty for all he had done, for having believed he was fine without Eames. He wasn't fine at all. He was burning to know how many guys Eames had been with, not since the phone breakup, but what Arthur now considered to be their true breakup, the last time they had seen each other in person. He hated Eames for calling now, for bringing everything back.

 

"Yeah," he patted himself on the back for keeping a steady voice and a flippant tone. "It wasn't what I thought it would be. I got a desk job, white-collar, and all that." At least lying was easier over the phone, though it burned him up inside to be unable to confess to Eames the magnificent world he had discovered. He knew Eames would have loved dreamsharing. The actor in him would have thrived in the environment. He wasn't an architect or a point man (as Cobb had come to call Arthur's job), and extraction probably wouldn't have come as easily as it did to Cobb, but they hadn't even scratched the surface of the possibilities of the world. Arthur was sure Eames would have surprised them all with a new discovery.

 

"A desk job?" Eames was echoing on the other end of the phone. "What the fuck, Arthur? You're so much better than that." The concern, the goddamn pity in his voice made Arthur bristle. Fuck his misplaced sympathy. It was no longer his right, and honestly it was goddamn insulting that the only time Eames thought to contact him was to be condescending.

 

"Yeah, well, what I'm good for is no longer your concern, Eames." He hung up, cutting Eames off in mid-syllable as he called his name.

 

Arthur stared at the phone, his entire body was vibrating, and he'd never felt more aware of being so empty. He missed Eames like a limb. He wondered if he would feel this way forever. He was angry that he had been able to trick himself into believing he was fine, that he  _had_ been fine, and that all it took to bring that illusion crashing down was the first vibration of that voice. Arthur was scared that Eames would forever be making momentary appearances just to take a jab and remind him that this scab could be peeled off and bleed and hurt just as much as always, before disappearing again, leaving Arthur as raw and bleeding as when he had left the message on the answering machine.

 

Eames didn't call back.

 

The next day, Arthur changed the numbers of his home phone and cell.

 

**

They met Nash in the fall. Miles had finally been able to get ahold of him, somewhere in the Asian continent, and had sent him on the first plane to New York. They met in a boisterous cafe, because Miles knew Nash, but that didn't meant he trusted him. Arthur understood immediately when they saw Nash.

 

He was a shifty guy, greasy all around in every sense of the word, with an evasive look in his eyes and a downward turn of the mouth, which seemed reluctant to part with any syllable.

 

"So you guys are the new team?" He glanced them over, all three of them sitting side by side on the booth across from him. It felt more like an interview than a meeting between potential coworkers, and Arthur feared that they weren't the ones doing the evaluation. "Been hearing rumors. Just low murmurs, nothing loud enough to rouse much attention though."

 

"How many are there in the business?" Mal asked, her voice sharp with business. Arthur knew that she didn't like Nash one bit either.

 

If Nash noticed the hostility coming from them, he didn't let it show. "Let's see...There are six unregistered PASIVs floating around. I've worked with two before. One's permanently located in LA. They don't move around much, and only in the States. Second is in Mombasa on a job at the moment. They're from England though."

 

"How do you know all of this?" Arthur couldn't help but ask, with a bitter taste in the back of his mouth. He had searched incessantly for any signs of another PASIV since the beginning, but he had come up with nothing. He had come to discover just how fickle illegal researching was. You had to know exactly what you were looking for, and know where to look for it. Otherwise, some information would be lost to you forever. It angered him that someone like Nash would know, and not him.

 

Nash seemed to find the question very amusing. "It's just a matter of knowing the right people in the wrong crowds," he answered like a smartass. "Anyway," he went on, "there's a rumor of a seventh PASIV being functional, but no one's ever worked for the guy, and the source is highly questionable."

 

Arthur forced himself not to meet Mal's gaze. Nash hadn't taken offense to their attitude up to this point, but he may take offense if he saw just how much they considered _him_ to be a dubious source. He couldn't believe how off Miles had been. There were  _six_ , possibly seven, PASIVs floating around this whole time, and three of them were so off-grid that not even Interpol knew about them.

 

They took Nash back to Mal's dorm. They had stopped working out of a hotel room because of the cost. Their clients paid generously, but they knew they would have to invest the money wisely if they were to then invest in the PASIV and developing their own independent team. They were reluctant to bring Nash back to either of their places, but Cobb absolutely wanted them to go under with Nash. He had been in the business longer than any of them, Cobb whispered to them when Nash went off to the toilets. He may be able to teach them something.

 

And boy, did he ever.

 

**

 

The dream was fine at first. Mal was the architect and Nash, the dreamer. They weren't working on extraction for the moment, so Cobb and Arthur were observers more than anything. They walked around for a while, but Arthur couldn't see how Nash's dream was any different from any of theirs.

 

That all changed when Arthur tried to build a bridge to take them across the lake to where Nash and Mal were walking, and the projections lost it. They didn't run, but walked toward Arthur with scary intent in their eyes. When Arthur turned to Cobb, he found them separated by a wall of projections, closing in around him. They attacked when Arthur panicked and tried to break through them.

 

They grabbed for him, yanking handfuls of hair, dragging him down. They didn't kill him, they beat him down. Dozens of feet, smashing into his body. Arthur curled into a fetal position, but he felt the hard tips of boots and shoes smashing into his back with murderous intent. When one of them jumped on his ankle with both feet, Arthur cried out and reached for it, breaking his defensive wall.

 

The opportunity was seized with a kick to his throat, and his windpipe was smashed. The whirl of emotion was torture. Arthur couldn't breathe, but he wasn't dying either. He felt his ribs crack, and a hit to his face made his vision spin black.

 

He saw the man with the bat arrive straight in front of him. He saw the bat swing for his skull. He felt the impact, the pain of his skull exploding. And still he wasn't dead.

 

It wasn't until he brought the bat down a second time that Arthur snapped awake, leaning forward so far with a gasp of a scream of agony that had died in his throat that he fell off of his chair.

 

He threw up on the carpet, body shaking violently at the memory of the pain. His hands fervently ran over his body, his ribs, his face... his head, all fine. But he could see the feet, the hard, cold gazes of the projections looking down at him as they kicked with all of their strength. He could still see his blood spurting from his body, could still taste the blood as his teeth fell in his mouth.

 

His ears were ringing with screams, and he didn't realize he was the one still screaming until he felt strong hands pulling him back, and he finally fell silent, his throat raw and his eyes burning.

 

"Arthur!" It was Cobb, pushing him back onto a chair, sitting down in front of him. Arthur was finally able to focus on his face, on his eyes. They shone with worry, but with something else - anger. White, hot anger. "You're okay. You're fine." Arthur realized dully that Cobb was yelling, nearly screaming, at him. Somehow, his voice was still so far away. "It was just a dream, do you hear me? Just a fucking dream."

 

Arthur nodded, but he felt sick. He was seeing himself from the outside, his body limp and broken and bloody, gasping vainly for breath. He saw his skull busted open, his brains leaking out onto the pavement, his legs twisted in the wrong direction. It hadn't been a dream. It had been so real. The pain, lingering and unable to stop, because he had been unable to die: you didn't need oxygen to live, when you weren't even awake.

 

There must have been a noise, because suddenly Cobb had turned away, had stood up. Arthur looked up, and saw more than heard Cobb yelling at Nash, getting up close in his face, spittle flying and his arms flailing as he barely restrained himself from hitting him.

 

Mal was moving away, toward Arthur, and Arthur forced himself to stand, forced himself to push his yells still echoing in his ears away.

 

"Arthur, Arthur, what happened?" she whispered, arms wrapping around him, pulling him close.

 

He could hear again, in that moment, safe in Mal's arms, and suddenly everything felt so loud.

 

"Cobb." He pulled away from Mal to put a hand on Cobb's shoulder, reining him in. "Stop."

 

"What kind of sick person are you?" Cobb spat, one last time, but letting himself be pulled away. "You fucking tore him apart."

 

"I'm sorry," Nash said, turning to Arthur. There was something akin to sorrow in his face, and Arthur actually believed him. "You have to understand that things are different, out there. Not all clients are so wealthy, and not all marks are so morally abiding. Sometimes, you have to resort to unconventional means to get a job done. Sometimes, a job turns nasty, and a mark turns violent. In the end, your own subconscious does all it can to protect itself."

 

Cobb wasn't buying it. "You should have warned us. I want you to leave."

 

Nash handed them a card, white and blank except for a series of numbers scrawled onto it. "The number of the architect in Mombasa. He'll be more helpful than the one located in LA, more open to newcomers in the business. Tell him Nash recommended him."

 

He was walking toward the door when he stopped and turned again. "I'm sorry for how today happened, but I can't say I'm sorry it did. It would have happened eventually, and it's better you know the stakes while it's still early enough to pull out." Then he was gone.

 

**

 

Nash had been wrong about Arthur. It was already too late for him to pull out now. For weeks, he was unable to sleep, plagued by Nash's projections closing in on him. In his dreams, they hissed and bared fangs when they snarled, their feet were metal spikes, and when they kicked him, they pierced through his body, but even the pain wasn't able to wake him up. He started taking sleeping pills, to chase away the demons of his dreams, and soon he was unable to fall asleep without them.

 

When he finally went under again, with the PASIV, Cobb was the first person his projections turned against, beating him down like Nash had done to him. Mal and Arthur had been unable to help him, unable to kill him through the wall of projections, and Arthur had had to hold Mal back to keep her from trying anyway. When they were done with Cobb, the projections turned, closing in on Mal. That was when Arthur finally had the good idea to dream up a gun and wake Mal up.

 

Cobb had woken up in a cold sweat, shaking, but more composed than Arthur had been. At least he had been prepared, and he understood. He shared a long, haunted look with Arthur, and then got up to clap him on the shoulder. No offense taken.

 

Mal was the one who asked that it happen to her as well.

 

"It's not like I want to die by a mob beating," she'd snapped at Arthur when he'd protested. "But I'm not about to stand around and be coddled because you think I'm too weak to handle it. It's a dream, and I won't be at a disadvantage here."

 

She went under alone with Cobb. When they woke up, Mal locked herself in the bathroom. They heard her sobbing for hours, but she came back out, no one mentioned it, and that was that.

 

Arthur joined a tae-kwon-do class a few days later. He liked the mentality of the art, and the self-discipline it required of him. His daily workout routine distracted him from the shadows of the night. It was a precise art, with strict rules and respectable morals, which were a welcome change from Arthur's work life that was becoming more distorted and chaotic.

 

When they finally got in touch with the architect from Mombasa, whose name was Ern and whose voice was like words being grated, Arthur felt they were ready to integrate into the illegal network of international dreamsharing. They had been tried and hardened, and they were no longer the naive children marveling at a new, wonderful, pure technology. They knew, now, that this machine was a weapon, sharp and deadly. They had lived through the worst it had to offer, and now Arthur felt as though nothing could hurt him anymore.

 

He knew it wasn't the same for Cobb and Mal. When he had seen them, huddled together, trying to heal each other's wounds and only hurting that much more when they took in the depth of their injuries, he knew in that moment that Mal and Cobb were stronger than him. He didn't know if he could have survived the trial of seeing Eames murdered in such an animalistic way. Arthur was wildly glad, for the first time, that he was tied to no one, that he had cut Eames loose before Eames had cut him.

 

Of course, the moment Arthur realized that was the moment Eames came waltzing back into his life.

 

**

 

Becoming part of an international crime organization was a lot less glamorous than Arthur had anticipated. The underground dreamshare program was miniscule. With six PASIVs circulating, there were only so many team permutations possible. Six PASIVs meant six teams. From what he gathered, Arthur calculated an average of three or four members per job: an architect, a chemist, a point man, and an extractor, and few jobs required a chemist onboard permanently.

 

Recently, rumors had been circulating, mainly coming from Britain, about a fifth addition, a forger, one who could apparently take on new faces in dreams. Arthur kept a watchful eye on the rumors, but he doubted they would amount to much. So far, all of the reports had stated that none of them were very realistic, or could hold the changes for longer than fifteen minutes.

 

It was hard to calculate the exact number of people in the dreamshare realm precisely for that reason. It was easy for people to come in and drop out unannounced, barely seen, virtually unheard of, but they came in for a job and then disappeared. There were a lot of shams, as well, people who saw a seemingly easy few bucks, only to be sorely mistaken. The clientele was still sparse, and the payout not always as grand or generous as they had become used to. Cobb said it would only be a matter of time until the more wealthy caught wind of the technology. Then the stakes would become interesting.

 

Then there were the conmen. Men who had made a reputation and career by trying to take off with the PASIV the moment everyone's eyes were averted.

 

It was exhausting work, distrusting everyone.

 

Arthur, Cobb, and Mal quickly got a reputation of a trio who actually trusted each other. They tried to only work with each other, but every now and then, they had to take on a new addition to the team, usually when Mal had to go back to France, and it usually ended in disaster. The newcomer saw that unconditional trust Cobb and Arthur had long ago perfected and became resentful, feeling like a third wheel. They were the most dangerous, acting like a spurned lover.

 

So they stuck to only working together, except when it absolutely couldn't be helped.

 

This time, however, was not one of those times, which was why Arthur was so surprised when Cobb came to tell him that their fourth member would be arriving sometime that afternoon.

 

Mal had gone back to France to pick up the PASIV they'd left in her father's care. The timer had been acting up lately, and it was a priority to get it fixed. They also had been running low on Somnacin, and Mal could also get her fill from her father. Arthur knew they had to find their own chemist soon. They could hardly earn a name or a reputation for themselves if they kept relying on Daddy's connections to get them by. But Cobb wanted to hold out a little bit longer. It would be career suicide getting Somnacin from an individual provider without knowing what they would put into it.

 

Arthur was meditating on this, wondering which of their last partners had been the least distasteful who could possibly recommend a half-way decent chemist who wouldn't poison them and run off with the cash, when Cobb approached him.

 

"Got a new guy coming in this afternoon."

 

Arthur frowned. "What for?" Mal was running the extraction, this time around, to let Cobb handle the architecture for once. Arthur, as always, was on the research.

 

"He's a forger. Apparently, the only one who's any good, for the moment. He can-"

 

"I know what a forger does, I've heard the rumors," Arthur snapped, irritation at not having been consulted on the matter starting to claw its way up. "Anyway, we don't need a different face in this one."

 

Cobb gave a mild shrug. "It's good to try out new elements, especially on low-key jobs when the stakes are low."

 

Arthur gritted his teeth. "Fine. I don't need to tell you then that we'll need to keep an extra eye on this guy. If he's sleazy enough to change his appearance in the dream, just imagine how questionable his motives could be in reality. What's his name?"

 

"I-" Cobb closed his mouth, and then frowned. "Well, actually, I don't think she told me. Mal just booked him, apparently. She called from the airport to tell me. He should be arriving in the late afternoon."

 

Arthur groaned. He hated it when Mal and Cobb went off on their own accord for such matters. They knew he preferred to meet potential partners on neutral grounds before disclosing the location of their current headquarters to them. They had rented a small warehouse, a good distance from either of their rooms, for work. Mal always claimed it was such a waste of time. If the temporary additional team member was in fact shady, they could always just stalk them and find out where they lived in the end. So Mal always snatched any opportunity to bypass that step.

 

"Fine," Arthur finally growled at Cobb. "But he better be on time. I'm not waiting around for him just to show up."

 

He was late.

 

Arthur waited around anyway.

 

He mumbled something about not having finished some paperwork when Cobb casually mentioned the time to him.

 

It was growing dark when Cobb said he was popping out to get them coffee. Three minutes later, Arthur heard a hummed greeting behind him. He had been so absorbed in his paperwork, with fatigue tugging at the corner of his eyes as he hadn't gotten much sleep lately, that he hadn't even heard Cobb's usual heavy-footed steps. He spun around, stretching out a hand for the coffee.

 

"That was fa-" The words died on his lips as he finally lifted his head away from his desk to stare at Cobb.

 

Only, it wasn't Cobb. It was Eames, standing a few feet away from him with a bulging duffel bag slung over one shoulder. His hair was disheveled, his horrible yellow shirt with some kind of circle design on it was wrinkled, and he looked exhausted. And about just as surprised as Arthur, although Arthur doubted Eames felt the same punch to the gut that made it hard to breathe and his head spin as a burst of longing, stronger than he'd felt in years, coursed through him. Eames hadn’t been anything more than a voice on the phone for three years now; actually seeing him again felt too surreal to properly process.

 

Arthur swallowed, throat dry and tongue pasty. He had to say something. He wondered if maybe he was dreaming, had plugged himself up to the PASIV, but he couldn't reach for his die, and a quick rerun in his mind found no blanks as to how he had gotten anywhere in the last day. Besides, he had never dreamed of Eames. Arthur had compartmentalized him too well for that. He had wanted to forget how he'd ever felt in Eames' presence. And it had worked. Up until now, and suddenly it was all coming back.

 

Eames was the one who finally spoke. "You're Mal's Arthur."

 

It seemed like such a ridiculous thing to say. Of course Arthur was Mal's Arthur, but it broke the spell, and Arthur collected himself and stood, because he could not tolerate Eames looking down at him like that. He felt stronger when he saw Eames' eyes rise along with his body. They were the same height. Arthur had grown since the last time they'd seen each other, he realized with a burst of satisfaction.

 

"You're late." He felt very proud of himself for managing to keep his voice steady, although he didn't know what to do with his hands as Eames' eyes did a once-over of Arthur's body. Arthur wondered what he thought of the transformation. Arthur was all suits and slicked-back hair and professionalism now. If he marveled at what Arthur had become, or if he regretted having missed out on what had been a gradual metamorphosis.

 

Eames made a guttural noise in the back of his throat. "Traffic. There was an accident on the highway."

 

Right. The air around them was heavy and awkward, and Arthur wished Cobb was here to take over the conversation. Then he realized all the explaining he would have to do if that had been the case, and was glad Cobb had stepped out after all. "So, you're a forger." It wasn't a question, but Eames nodded all the same. "How long?"

 

"Only recently. It's a bugger of a skill to nail down."

 

"I mean, how long have you been in dreamsharing?"

 

Eames heaved his shoulder and looked past Arthur's, reluctant to answer. "A few months after I got back to London? It just sort of... happened," he added, with a tinge of what may be an apologetic tone.

 

Arthur's heart clenched painfully. He felt betrayed. He hadn't told Eames because they had already broken up. He would have told him if it had happened earlier.  _But it wasn't the same,_  a side of him bitterly justified.  _Eames had already made it clear that he didn't want much to do with you as soon as he left_.

 

"Right. Okay," he inhaled sharply. He had to be the bigger man here.

 

"Arthur, I tried-"

 

"It's fine," Arthur cut him off sharply, but his chest was tight and his arms wanted to stretch out toward Eames. Hearing his name said like that – a plea, almost – was almost too much to bear. It would do no good to talk about the past now. Arthur would have to work at separating the old Eames from this new one, this new one who had filled out nicely around the shoulder and who had developed the firm muscles that eighteen-year-old Eames had only just started forming when he'd left, but Arthur could only do that by moving forward in their conversation. "Welcome aboard, Mr. Eames. You'll be meeting my partner soon enough."

 

Eames' mouth twisted around the word, "Partner?"

 

Arthur blinked at him. "Of course. You didn't think I'd be alone, did you?"

 

Eames' mouth opened and then closed again, a firm line. Arthur couldn't read him at all. Of course, that was nothing new.

 

That's when Cobb stormed back in, opening the door with his same force and lack of discretion. "Here's your Ristretto double shot Cinnamon Spice Mocha. You ready to head home? I hardly think that he'll be here anytime soon. We could grab a bite to-" That was when Cobb kicked the door shut, and finally looked up from the two cups he was holding and saw Eames.

 

"Cobb, meet Eames, our forger. Eames, this is Cobb."

 

"Hi, Eames," Cobb greeted politely enough, oblivious to the tension in the air as he walked over to Arthur and handed him his coffee with a small smile and a pat on the shoulder.

 

Eames' eyes never left Cobb, and after a few seconds of Cobb staring expectantly at Eames, he finally bit out: " _Cobb's_ your boyfriend? The slob?"

 

" _What_?" Arthur almost yelled, and Cobb sputtered out his coffee beside him. Arthur's mind churned as to how Eames could have come to this conclusion, and then realized that Eames was completely and utterly stupid. Arthur straightened his shoulders out. "That's none of your business," he snapped, preventing Cobb from replying.

 

After a few beats of silence, Cobb finally tentatively suggested that they all go home. Or in Eames' case, to the hotel room they booked for him two blocks down, and they could fill Eames in on the case the next day.

 

That was how Eames spent the first half of the job believing Cobb and Arthur were an item. Arthur didn't bother to dissuade him of the illusion he had basically implemented, and Cobb, after confronting Arthur once they had dropped Eames off at the hotel ("That's Eames?  _Your_  Eames? Fuck."), after Arthur had politely but quite coldly told him he didn't want to talk about it, meekly went along with the charade. He didn't outwardly encourage it, but he didn't set Eames straight either, for which Arthur was indefinitely grateful.

 

The tension, however, was palpable, helped none in the least by the petty game Eames set up for himself, seeing how far he could push him before Arthur snapped.

 

The game went like this: Eames did something to irritate Arthur, and Arthur, unable to hold himself back as was always the case with Eames, who had always known how to get under his skin, retorted on a greater scale. Eames would prod him with a verbal jab that hit too close to home, so Arthur would 'accidentally' stab him with a pen with a jerky movement when Eames was standing too close. Or Eames mixed up a pile of documents that Arthur had taken great pains to color-code and arrange alphabetically, so Arthur blocked Eames out of his computer so Eames couldn't access the files on the victim, and lost a day's worth of work which resulted in Cobb yelling at him for being so petulant and provoking Arthur. Then he told Arthur off for being so petulant as to let himself be provoked by Eames and enable him in his activities.

 

Arthur didn't delude himself that this was jealousy on Eames' part. Although he didn't have the longest track record in relationships, as it began and ended with Eames as far as he was concerned, he knew better than to believe Eames still wanted him.

 

Then Mal returned with the PASIV. "So she's the famous Mal, huh?" Eames wondered aloud, forgetting himself in Arthur's presence in a moment of intrigue as he watched Mal stroll through the room with purpose, handing the repaired PASIV over to Cobb with great care. It was starting to look more like the sleek technology that it was, now, and less like a pile of knotted wires.

 

"I suppose so," Arthur mumbled in reply, gathering up the files he needed Mal to look over.

 

He stood just as Mal leaned over to kiss Cobb in a manner that was a smidgen inappropriate for a working place environment.

 

"W-what is she doing?" Eames choked out, eyes wide and hands braced on the arms of his chair as though ready to propel himself from his seat.

 

"Kissing him. She is Cobb's girlfriend, after all," Arthur replied easily, as he left Eames to stare dumbly after him before the information registered and he bellowed:

 

" _WHAT?_ "

 

**

 

The job was relatively simple. The client was certain that he had been fired from his job because of his cancer. He wanted proof of his former employer's dishonesty, but he didn't want a big scene. He just wanted his job back. They were cheaper than lawyers, and more discreet than a private investigator.

 

The plan was for Arthur and Mal, posing as employees of the firm, to discuss the recent layoff of the employee, and their client, Harisson Cane. This would happen at a time their boss, a partner of the firm and their mark, Josh Coutlee, walked by. Coutlee thought he was on his way to an improv meeting with another partner of the firm, forged by Eames.

 

With Cane on his mind as he entered the meeting, the folder Eames had asked Coutlee to bring up with him would be subconsciously filled with the transactions of the discussion between Coutlee and his partner, in which they had decided which pretext to fire Cane under that was the most plausible.

 

It was a straightforward job, and they honestly hadn't needed Eames to play the part, but Mal had wanted to test out the new forger on the market before anyone else claimed him. Of course, at that time, Mal hadn't known the forger was Eames.

 

Eames must have given Mal another name, his dreamshare alias perhaps, because she was beyond shocked when she discovered who he was. She became icy toward him from that moment on, refusing to speak to him unless absolutely necessary, and taking apparent pleasure in shooting down any idea with the smallest visible flaw in it.

 

Arthur was sure one of them would snap and kill the other, but they had managed to get through the planning phase without any casualties, and there was no reason the job should fail. Mal and Eames had absolutely no interactions.

 

After the job, Arthur was packing up the warehouse, rolling up the blueprints of the firm and the file he'd put together on Coutlee's biography and work schedule, when Eames showed up beside him.

 

"I thought everyone had left," Arthur told him, moving to the other side of the desk so they wouldn't be too close together.

 

"I did call you that day," Eames said by way of answering.

 

Arthur looked up from his tidying, surprised. He didn't have to ask what Eames was talking about. Over two years had passed, but he didn't think he would ever forget that day, even if he lived to stop loving Eames. He wanted to be the better man about it, smile and wave it off like he'd gotten over it. Instead, he blurted. "You really didn't. I waited all day-"

 

"You'd stepped out, for class," Eames pointed out.

 

"Bullshit. I had my cellphone on me. Besides, Cobb was home all day."

 

"Yeah, I know," Eames snapped, "because I talked to him. Look, my cell had died, and it was too expensive to call yours from my home phone, so I called your dorm. Cobb said he'd pass the message."

 

Arthur remembered Cobb's excitement. Arthur hadn't known it then, but that had been the day Miles had arrived with the PASIV. And remembered the way he hadn't heard Arthur asking if anyone had called. Maybe he had remembered later, but hadn't dared to tell Arthur. Or maybe he had never remembered at all. "He didn't," he admitted with a sick feeling in his stomach. Then, he pulled himself together. "But that hardly matters. You never called anyway. I could never get a hold of you, and when I did, you could never speak."

 

Eames' guilty look told Arthur he was right on the mark. "I couldn't do it anymore. I was always waiting and hoping, and I was always disappointed. You were never there, Eames."

 

Eames waited a beat, and then he said, "I'm here now," softly, like a promise. Like the sweetest promise Arthur had ever wanted to hear.

 

Arthur sometimes forgot how young he actually was. He felt like he had lived half a lifetime already. High school and university already felt a universe away, though he had only left the latter a year ago. In that time, he had committed suicide, been murdered, been tortured, stolen dreams, stolen secrets, and made enough money to pay back his loans twenty times over. He'd felt old. Until Eames had shown up again. Now he had never felt so young.

 

Eames stirred uneasily under his silent gaze. "I got scared," he said, to justify himself or to fill in the silence, Arthur wasn't sure. "It was so serious, between us, and it was going so fast, and I was scared of people finding out and what they would say." He snorted. "So, I ran. Fuck, Arthur. I regretted it before the plane even took off, but it was too bloody late by then. I met up with my old mates in London. I never told you, but that's why we left England in the first place, my mates. Creepy, sleazy guys from the poor side of town. I got into dreamsharing pretty quickly after that. I wanted to tell you, I really did, but I didn't know how you'd react. You were always so anal about rules and regulations. I thought it'd be better if I avoided you."

 

They'd moved closer, but Arthur wasn't sure who had been the one to take the steps. They were facing each other on the same side of the desk, but Eames had a faraway look in his eyes, remembering the past. Arthur didn't dare interrupt him.

 

"Then, the job went south, and I called you to tell you I would contact you when I got back. But that fucker Cobb answered instead, said he'd pass on the message. When I got home, I got a very different message waiting for me." Eames' mouth twisted in a downward grimace. "I didn't know what he'd told you, or if you were just fed up with waiting. Can't say I blame you, really."

 

His look became sharp then, focused, and Arthur could tell he was looking at him again.

 

"I want to try again," he said, firmly and sure of himself.

 

Arthur's heart fluttered. "What about when you go back to London. What then?"

 

"There's nothing for me in London," Eames replied instantly. "I don't need to go back."

 

"I-I don't know." He couldn't be hurt like that again. Arthur could take anything, physically, but he was scared of losing his emotional sensitivity if Eames disappointed him again.

 

"There's someone else?"

 

"No." Arthur didn't tell him that there had never been anyone else, not emotionally, anyway. "But-"

 

Eames didn't wait to hear what he had to say. Instead, he leaned over, cupped Arthur and pulled him in, kissing him firmly on the mouth.

 

It was the best argument Arthur had ever heard; he couldn't contradict it. He melted into the touch, body sliding up again Eames' automatically, like it had been so used to doing once. The papers he had been holding had slipped out of his grip, and he brought a free hand to grab Eames' shirt to pull him closer, deepening the kiss until it turned dirty and they both panting against each other, hips angling toward each other.

 

"We can't," Arthur panted, pressing his palm flat against Eames' chest to push him away. He licked his swollen lips, and the glazed look of lust in Eames' eyes sent a surge of hot mercury to his groin. "We can't do it here."

 

"My hotel room is two blocks away," Eames muttered, leaning in to catch Arthur's mouth again, arms wrapping around his waist to pull him in.

 

Arthur twisted out of his hold. "Let's go. Now," he said, pausing only to grab the keys to lock the building.

 

Eames was hot on his heels.

 

 

Arthur woke to the low drone of the television. His body ached pleasantly when he turned onto his back. Beside him, Eames was sitting up, one leg dangling off the bed, the other slipped underneath the sheet, which covered him up as high up as his thigh. The contentment over his sated body was not an unfamiliar one, but the lurch in his heart and the uncontrollable desire to grin up at the man beside him was a feeling Arthur had not experienced in years.

 

"Mmm, dimples," Eames muttered, as he let out a billow of smoke and leaned down for a slow kiss.

 

"That's a two hundred dollar fine, you know," Arthur said when they separated, nodding at the cigarette held between two fingers.

 

Eames smiled wily down at him. "Is it, now? Bugger for Joshua Montgomery, then. If he exists and they contact the poor sod."

 

Arthur should have felt affronted at the trouble coming the innocent man's way, but he was too happy, and too much of a conman himself now, to feel aggrieved for someone he didn't know. Instead, he laughed, straddled Eames and leaned down for a kiss. Eames complied eagerly, putting out the cigarette on the dresser to his right and cupping Arthur's ass with warm, large hands.

 

"It'll be different this time around, pet," Eames was whispering in Arthur's ear, as he brought his hips up, slowly creating a wonderful friction against their bare erections. The slow pace was tortuous, and Arthur's head spun with want, mind urging him faster instead of listening to his words. "No more sneaking around. No more secrecy. It'll be just like you wanted."

 

That's when the meaning registered, and Arthur slammed Eames back against the headboard and fear drowned out his lust. Eames cursed as his head banged against the heavy wood behind him; he had not been expecting that.

 

"What the bloody hell, Arthur?"

 

"No," Arthur said, his mind still a bit hazy, but his heart racing with the need to correct Eames. To lay things out clearly. "This time won't be any different than the last, Eames. No one can know about us. Not in the business we're in."

 

Eames frowned. "Come off it. Mal and Cobb are doing just fine."

 

Arthur snorted. "They're so bloody discreet you wouldn’t have even know about if Mal hadn’t kissed Cobb right in front of you. And she probably only did _that_ because Cobb must have filled her in about your stupid delusion believing me and him were a couple."

 

"That's-" Eames started, but Arthur cut him off.

 

"But that's not the point. The point is that we're going to be making a lot of enemies, and we can't be the first out gay couple, not with the people we'll be around."

 

Eames heaved a sigh, obviously displeased with what he was hearing. Arthur smiled ironically at the reversal of their opinions. "We have to make our mark first. Show how good we are, be respected."

 

Arthur rolled his hips against Eames'. "Deal?"

 

Eames groaned, but it was more in arousal than anything. "You didn't offer me a deal, you little rascal." But his arms were wrapping around Arthur's back anyway. He flipped them over, pinning Arthur on his back effortlessly with his weight. Arthur could flip him off easily, if he wanted, but he let Eames believe he had him trapped. "But have it your way." His eyes burned as he leaned down, and Arthur grinned, his own eyes slipping shut before the distance was bridged.


	3. Chapter 3

Mal told Arthur about the pregnancy three days before the wedding. Out of the two announcements, the wedding news had come first only a week previously, only the former had come as totally unexpected, thanks to Eames helpfully pointing out " _See how she's been wearing loose-fitting shirts, recently? She's hiding something._ " As it turned out, she was hiding a fetus.

 

Neither Mal nor Cobb were very religious; any faith they may have had most likely diminished before disappearing completely upon their discovering dreamshare. It was hard to worship a higher being when you yourself could create, destroy, and live ten lives over again in the space of a day. Still, they had been raised in traditional families, and having a child born out of wedlock was just not an option for them. Because of their reputation, they decided on an exclusive ceremony of immediate family and Arthur only; Eames tagged along as Arthur's plus one.

 

"This should have been a double wedding," Mal grumbled for only the hundredth time as Arthur helped her into her dress. It was snug, but not tight-fitting, and the three-month-old baby bump was apparent. Because of the small ceremony, Cobb and Mal had actually bickered over whose Arthur was going to be for the wedding, Cobb's best man or Mal's brides...man. In the end, Arthur found himself shuffling back between the two rooms, with Eames lending the occasional hand.

 

Arthur was glad for the double duty at that moment, too busy wondering if Cobb hadn't lost his cuff links again to get too choked up about the reality of all that was happening - his sister was marrying his best friend. Or, his brother was marrying his best friend. It all depended on the angle he took it from, or on his mood at the moment. At that moment, thankfully, he was much too preoccupied wondering how he was going to tell Mal that Eames would take over for him while he checked up on Cobb to spend too much time worrying over the fact that he desperately thought of them both as siblings, and what it entailed.

 

"Don't you ever think about it?" Mal continued softly, unperturbed by Arthur's silence.

 

Arthur sighed. Of course he thought about it. He had wanted to marry ever since he had been old enough to know how different he was. But he had wanted marriage for all the wrong reasons. Now, when he married Eames, he knew what he would be looking for. Not a symbolic assimilation to the people he had once deeply yearned to be, but the ultimate pact of their partnership.

 

"I think about it all the time," he admitted. Though now the thought of Eames in a white tux no longer filled him with a bitter ache of a lost hope, but of a sweet vision of a promised reward. "But, not yet." They weren't ready. Although they had lived two lifetimes through dreams already, in the real world they were still so young. Mal and Cobb were still so young.

 

They forgot it at times. When Arthur looked at his reflection in the mirror, he was often surprised to see a hard-eyed youth of twenty-three looking back at him. He often had to reach for his loaded die. He felt so much closer to his forties, on the best of days.

 

It was that realization of how much time they actually had left that made him worry. In his adolescence, it had been that same notion of time that had made him believe they would always be together, and that had made him want others to know it too. And where had that gotten him? Three long, painful years without Eames.

 

That experience had made him cautious, and his job had made him weary. He knew that life was volatile, and more often than not, cruel. A job gone wrong and a cunning opponent could mean the end of their lives. Somehow, that had put everything into perspective. Affirming their relationship to their peers wasn't even a notion that Arthur entertained anymore. They were each other's greatest liabilities, and admitting that would be foolhardy. Any of their enemies would see it as the perfect opportunity to strike the other, or both, down.

 

Their prudence would only hold up for so long, Arthur knew, but until then, he was determined to milk it for all it was worth. Eames didn't seem to mind; in fact, it became a whole new game of its own.

 

Eames flirted outlandishly with Arthur on any job they had with partners who weren't Cobb or Mal. When he worked solo, Arthur had been told that he seemingly took relish in speaking behind his back. " _That stick-in-the-mud_?" he'd scoff whenever asked what it was like to work with Arthur. " _Not a shred of imagination in him_." For his part, Arthur put up with the jibes at work. Sometimes he snapped back, either when Eames was being irritatingly arousing or when Eames was just being downright irritating, because he did tend to push things too far.  When he didn't work with Eames, Arthur just didn't talk about him.

 

"You guys are so obvious," Cobb said, on one of the first jobs he had taken since Phillipa’s birth, but Arthur knew differently. He knew their secret was safe when he saw their architect Janet flirting openly with Eames as she showed him the layout for their latest job. Eames was flirting back, unabashedly, even though Arthur was standing right behind them and he knew it.

 

If he was trying to make Arthur jealous, Eames had one coming to him. If anyone knew how Eames flirted when he was being serious, it was Arthur. Eames flirted like he worked on a mark: subtly. It was the brush of fingers under a table, it was the tugging of a sweet smile when no one was looking, it was the heart-stopping moment of his unwavering stare when Arthur could feel all the things he wanted to do to him, without a word being spoken. And, like his work, Eames hid his art behind an extroverted loudness and clumsiness that fooled everyone.

 

In the end, Arthur almost believed that their charade would uphold forever. Phillipa said her first words, walked and stole Arthur's heart, and he and Eames were still in the shadows. It suited him fine, though at times he envied Cobb and Mal their home on the outskirts of town, with the fence and the large yard. They hadn't been as active in dreamshare recently, though, and Arthur wondered if that was a price he was willing to pay. If that was a price he was even willing to contemplate.

 

Margaret Woods was a sixty-eight year-old woman who came to them based on high recommendations. When Arthur told her that Cobb and Mal weren't available for this job (Phillipa had caught the chicken pox and they both refused to be the one to leave her side), she had looked at him, seemingly put out. "But, you will take it, won't you? You and that other fellow," she paused, glancing down at notes she had brought with her, "Eames."

 

Arthur nodded. "If you would like." Eames had become a good extractor over the years. Jobs didn't always require a forger. In fact, the jobs that did tended to be few and far between, and so he had needed to polish another skill to keep himself in the business. "I will put a team together, of course." Arthur had needed to expand his circle of partners since Cobb and Mal had become harder and harder to convince into taking jobs. Thankfully, the years had weeded out the jokers and the cons, and Arthur had a good list of trustworthy people.

 

The job was straightforward. Margaret was fearful that her husband was planning on leaving her for a younger woman. She didn't want him to know of her suspicions, however, which was why she had come to them, and not gone to a private investigator.

 

"I hope this isn't an insult to your talents, young man," she said, with sincere concern. "I suppose the heartbreaks of an old woman aren't high on your list of usual cases."

 

Arthur smiled at her, noting the sadness in her eyes, and the way she stared just over his shoulder, into the empty space behind him. He felt pained for her, in a way he never felt with his usual clients. She was offering him decent pay, on par with those asking him to bring down a rival in business or in love, but she had a humanity to her that the others seemed to have forgone along the way. "It's fine," he reassured her softly. "It's more than fine."

 

Eames came in at that moment. He had his usual duffel bag, the same one he had been lugging around when they had gotten back together nearly four years ago, slung over his shoulder. He was fresh back from the airport, having finished a particularly trying job in Bosnia. He must have heard from Cobb or Mal, who had been contacted with the job first before passing it on to Arthur, because he didn't look surprised at seeing Margaret Woods.

 

"Good afternoon," he greeted, before taking a seat beside Arthur. His fingers trailed over Arthur's collarbone before he took his seat, and Arthur couldn't stop himself from shifting in his seat, body leaning toward Eames. They hadn't seen each other in nearly nine weeks.

 

Margaret Woods gave them all the details of the job. She suspected her husband to be having an affair with a young secretary who worked for him. She wanted to know how serious things were, his motivations for the affair, and if he was planning on a divorce.

 

Eames nodded as he shifted through the pictures of the secretary. She was petite woman, in her early thirties, Arthur guessed, who made up for her figure with the highest heels Arthur had ever seen. They made her legs seem interminable. She may have been pretty, with fine, sharp features, but she wore her brown hair tied back in a severe bun, and coupled with her dress attire, she seemed cold and hostile. Compared to Margaret Wood's soft, caring blue eyes, Arthur found Emily Smith to be a loathsome creature.

 

"We'll have to get a team together," Eames said, still analyzing the pictures, "but I can start doing some fieldwork as early as tomorrow morning." He stood, smiling passingly at Margaret Woods. "If you'll excuse me, I have some airplane recycled air I'd like to wash off."

 

Once alone, Margaret Woods said, "I'd like to be there, when you do whatever it is you do. I was told he'd be asleep."

 

The request surprised Arthur. It was one he had never been asked before. "I'm not sure that would be wise..."

 

"Are you married?"

 

Arthur smiled wryly at that. "No."

 

"That young man of yours seems very pleasant," she said, without a hint of judgment or interest in her voice. Arthur suppressed a laugh of surprise, but he was sure his astonishment must have shown before he controlled himself. "But when you've been with someone as long as I..." She sighed, a heavy exhale of breath as she searched for the right words for her sorrow. "Being with that person becomes mundane, the mystery has long ago been uncovered, and everything is a routine."

 

Arthur thought of himself and Eames. Routine would be the last word he would use to describe them. Already four years since they had reunited, and they still had two separate places, though granted they usually stayed in one place or the other when they were together. They tried to work together as much as possible, but often they landed different jobs and didn't see each other for weeks, sometimes months. The sex was just as hot and intense, just as passionate, before sizzling down and becoming tender, more familiar, after the first few days. Maybe that was the secret to their success; it was always a reunion when they met up again. But how was he to know that Cobb and Mal didn't experience exhilarating emotions, even if they stemmed from a different source?

 

Margaret Woods was staring at a picture of Emily, one where she had her head bent down and was talking intently to Mr. Woods, a sixty-five year old man with thick, silver hair and a good posture. He was an attractive, healthy-looking man who could pass for as young as fifty years old. "But who's to say that love is lost when routine is found?" Margaret Woods asked him. Arthur had no reply.

 

In the end, Emily Smith turned out to be a secretary Mr. Woods had been using for another purpose, as a realtor scout. He'd sent her to over half a dozen houses, but Eames was unable to assess what they did in the houses. They were in long enough for sex, he said at the meetings, but wasn't it a little strange that a multi-millionaire would take his secretary to modest houses for sale to get off? Why not a hotel? Besides, they never came out looking ruffled enough, and Eames was an expert on trying to cover up his and Arthur's frolics.

 

When Mr. Woods took Eames-as-Emily to a house in the dream, it all became clear. The house was of a decent size, though it was fair to say it was small for a wealthy man, made entirely of wood and located by the lake. When he entered the house and saw the fireplace, Mr. Woods laughed.

 

"It's wonderful. It's perfect! What do you think, Emily?"

 

'Emily' smiled coyly. "It's perfect, James."

 

Watching, but well-hidden on the second floor, Arthur frowned at Eames' bold move. From what he had been able to tell from Emily, she was all professional. Definitely not the type of person to be on a first-name basis with her boss. Unless...

 

James Woods didn't seem to have noticed, however, and went on blithely. "She could set up her canvass here, with a perfect view of the lake, and in the winter she can knit by the fireplace. It is such a cozy home, not like that cold palace."

 

Arthur's head was spinning. Painting, knitting, along with the mention of a third person. And that 'cold palace' had been the exact same phrase Margaret Woods had used when she had told Arthur she feared their home was one of the main reasons her husband was so rarely there.

 

"Margaret will love it." Eames-as-Emily had turned off the tone of sexual prowess. Now the voice was genuinely sweet. It had never been an affair with a severe-looking woman twice his junior. James Woods had been searching for the perfect way to revive his old, stagnated relationship.

 

Arthur thought he was going to wake himself up by dying on the romantic overload of the moment. Either that, or he was about to die of how envious he felt of Margaret Woods right then. Marriage could be argued to be nothing but a financial deal between two people and the government, and on a lesser scale, between the two same people and their church. Arthur had no needs for a financial bond with his government, and he had no faith he felt the need to be represented in. But he knew, at that moment, that there was a bond to be had in marriage.

 

When he woke up from the dream, Arthur knew that he was ready to marry Eames.

 

**

 

Convincing Eames wasn't hard. Arthur sat him down across from him and placed the duo rings on the table. Eames placed his hand over his heart and leaned back dramatically in his chair. "Be still my heart!" he exclaimed. "Arthur wants me to enter in the bonds of sacred matrimony."

 

"Oh shut up," Arthur retorted without a hint of a bite, his tone much too fond. "Do you like them?" They had cost him a small fortune. Finding a pair of male wedding bands had not been an easy task, but Arthur was nothing if not a diligent researcher.

 

Eames grew somber. "I like them," he said. "And my answer is yes."

 

Arthur broke into a wide, silly grin. "Fuck," he laughed. "We're getting married."

 

Eames said nothing, but stood and leaned over the table, pulling Arthur to him, and kissed him over the two rings sitting in between them.

 

 

Eames offered to forge the papers from a country where same-sex marriage was legal, but Arthur wanted it to be done legally. Eames had heaved a shoulder. "Belgium allows marriage if one of the spouses has lived there for three months or more. Documents like that are easy to come up with."

 

Arthur had smiled indulgently at him. "Eames, we're getting married in the states. I want my family to come."

 

"I hate to be the one to point this out to you, darling, but gay marriage is only legal in three states, and I'm not getting married in Connecticut."

 

Arthur grinned at him. "Massachusetts it is, then."

 

The wedding was small, though a bit larger and public than Mal and Cobb's had been. Arthur's family came, but Eames' parents were in London, and weren’t able to make it due to Eames' father's bad back, or so they had said. They'd never been outwardly hostile to Eames and Arthur since Eames' coming out, but they had never reached out to them.

 

Mal's parents had made the move, and a few dreamshare partners had gotten the memo, somehow, and shown up. Arthur was less than pleased when he saw Nash amongst the crowd, but he said nothing. They'd worked together many times over the years. Though Nash had always done his job to a more or less satisfactory degree, Arthur had never been able to shake off his feeling of unease around Nash. He always expected the worst from the man.

 

It felt strange to be the one Amanda was fussing over. It felt even stranger when he recalled that Amanda had been a married woman for close to eight years, and had a preschooler of three and a half years old.

 

"Mom thinks one of you should have been in black," she said, straightening his bow tie.

 

Arthur smirked. "So everyone could make jibes about who the woman is? It's better this way, let them wonder."

 

Amanda rolled her eyes, but Arthur could tell her heart wasn't in it. "You look amazing. Mom's going to sob her heart out."

 

"Don't start the waterworks without her, then," Arthur teased, bringing up a thumb to wipe a tear from her cheek.

 

Amanda batted him away. "Shut up. You're my little brother, I'm allowed to cry. Have you two talked about kids?" Amanda asked after a few minutes of silence.

 

"Jesus, Amanda. We're not even married yet."

 

"Oh, please. You two have been together for three eternities, it's a valid question."

 

Arthur sighed. "No, we haven't."

 

"All right, well..." she visibly hesitated, "when you're ready, just know that I'm… Well, I don't really know which way is the best way to say this. I don't think adoption should be your only option."

 

The offer touched Arthur. "Shouldn't you discuss this with Brad first?"

 

"Oh, I have. As I've said," Amanda smirked, "you two have been together forever. Obviously, the topic has come up many times. He's definitely okay with it."

 

Arthur hugged his sister, hoping to convey all his gratitude through the gesture. "Thanks," he whispered.

 

Amanda broke the hug, adjusted his suit, and then pushed him toward the door. "Enough of this mushy stuff," she said, her voice light and teasing. "Now go out there and become a man."

 

 

Everything changed after the wedding. Although the military program on dreamsharing had already closed down years previously, and the technology was technically legal to use, no one really dared to risk the flimsy law, and the bulk of the jobs had remained illegal and dangerous. Then, a new legislation was passed, and dreamshare became the newest wealthy trend.

 

The onslaught of jobs was monotonous and boring. The leisurely rich didn't need a rival taken down, had no need for extensive research to be run or cunning plans to be drawn up on how to flawlessly pry a deep-dark secret from a militarized business tycoon's subconscious.

 

No, they wanted to be put under themselves and live out their most outlandish fantasies. They wanted to be the hero to their own, perfectly set up and synchronized adventure. And they were willing to shell out the big bucks for the former illegal conmen of the dreamshare community.

 

Mal and Cobb were the first to grow bored. The adrenaline rush of going under and not knowing what conditions they would be waking up to, gone, the intellectual drive of pushing the limits and exploring the newest depth of dreamshare, gone.

 

Somehow, Mal and Cobb's retirement from the business meant Arthur became their on-call, around-the-clock babysitter.

 

They didn't tell Arthur exactly what they were up to, but Arthur wasn't an idiot. He knew they were going under by themselves. He trusted them, though. They were pioneers of the trade, and their disgust of the road the business had taken was only natural. They couldn't stop their research, and Arthur felt that they shouldn't have to. The PASIV was theirs, and with Somnacin being regulated by a privatized, international company, they could go under all they needed.

 

Besides, Arthur wasn't without his own ulterior motives. He loved Phillipa and James, and babysitting them proved more entertaining and exhausting than any jobs he had to pull of these days. The jobs were boring, but Arthur found his life just as exciting in a new way. James didn't do much. He was only eight months old and slept most of the day, waking up to be changed or to eat. Still, Arthur felt a rush of pleasure from merely holding and rocking him. Phillipa, on the other hand, demanded so much energy Arthur was glad when he had to lay her down for her one-o'clock nap and finally got to collapse onto the couch and rest. He had pulled more all-nighters over his life than he'd slept, but he had never felt so exhausted as when he tried to keep up with Phillipa as she bounced from one game to another.

 

Arthur's favorite days were the ones when Eames was there. He still mostly took on the illegal jobs, as not too many legal ones required a man of his expertise, but even for the extraction jobs, he preferred to go abroad. Eames was great with Phillipa in a way Arthur knew he could never be. Arthur's imagination ran short on the games. He would have preferred to read Phillipa books all day long, teach her mathematical equations past her age, and maybe teach her a thing or two about survival (who knew what could happen, and women who could think on their own feet and react in a timely manner were always better off). Eames, on the other hand, chased Phillipa around the yard until she collapsed with fatigue, and then proceeded to tickle her until she was breathlessly hysterical.

 

"I don't know how you do it," Arthur muttered, staring at Phillipa in wonder. She was out cold in her bed, having gone to her nap without Arthur having to tell her for the first time.

 

Eames closed the door to her room gently. He looked burned out himself. Though he wasn't even twenty-eight years old, he didn't have much time for exercising, and it was starting to show. "Are Cobb and Mal still under?"

 

Arthur shrugged. "I don't know. They're not always under. Usually they just talk about their latest theories. I don't even know what they're on about now. Something about going deeper..." It wasn't as though Mal and Cobb were never home. They never called Arthur more than two or three times a week, but Eames had started asking more questions, with his lips pursed and brow furrowed. He didn't approve of their side operations.

 

"Listen," Arthur didn't want to talk about them. He sat Eames across from him at the dining table. He felt jittery. He had been thinking about this for months now, ever since he had started taking care of the kids on a regular basis. Phillipa and James were great, and he loved them with all his heart. But now, with their career being safer and more secure than it had ever been, he wanted more than just someone else's kids. He wanted his own. He told Eames as much.

 

"Jesus, Arthur," Eames leaned back in his chair, surprised and mouth hanging open, speechless. "We've only just gotten married... We don't even have our own house, for Pete's sake."

 

Arthur was buzzing with excitement, barely hearing Eames. He could see it already, in his mind, their home, their family. "We've been together for over ten years, Eames," he pointed out. "The wedding was just a formality. Besides, we can find a house easily. It doesn't matter anymore. We have nothing to fear from our work."

 

Eames chewed on his lip. "I don't know, Arthur..."

 

"What's there to be indecisive about? It's not like we'd have to stop anything. Take jobs closer to home, for the first few years maybe, but we wouldn't have to stop."

 

"We're not even thirty years old."

 

Eames was grasping for excuses, and Arthur couldn't tell why. The ebb of excitement was wearing off, replaced with disappointment. "I often feel ten years older," he admitted, for perhaps the first time. Softly, he added, "Don't you want kids?"

 

"No. I mean, yes. I mean, I don't know, Arthur. There's so many things to think about. The adoption process, where we'll choose from-"

 

"We don't have to," Arthur put in. "Amanda's agreed to be our surrogate."

 

Eames stared at him, dumbstruck. "Amanda what? When was this?"

 

"At the wedding. She just sort of mentioned it."

 

Eames laughed, almost incredulously. "I was always telling her how we'd make beautiful babies, back in school."

 

Arthur's heart soared. "So, does that mean … you want to?"

 

"I don't know, Arthur. Let's sit on it for a while, alright? Make sure this is really what we want."

 

"I'm sure," Arthur replied instantly, voice a bit harder than he had intended. Eames looked at him, eyes fixed but expression unreadable. He didn't say anything, but leaned over and pulled Arthur in to kiss him. Arthur couldn't even tell if the kiss was meant as a means of agreement or apology.

 

**

 

Arthur made the unfortunate decision of telling Mal about his and Eames' discussion the following week. It was unintentional; he knew Eames wouldn't have wanted him to say anything since nothing had been decided, but the subject hadn't been brought up again since that first time, and Arthur spent every second of his day wondering whether the next time Eames spoke would be to crush the fluttering feeling of hope in his chest, or alleviate it. He needed to tell someone.

 

"Eames and I are thinking of having kids," he said.

 

Mal beamed. "Arthur, that's wonderful." She laughed. "Adoption?"

 

Arthur shook his head. "Surrogacy. My sister Amanda, she offered."

 

"Just wait until I tell Cobb," Mal grinned, raising her wine glass as a premature toast.

 

"No, you-" but Arthur's voice died out as Eames entered the kitchen. They were dining at Mal and Cobb's tonight, and Arthur had thought that Cobb's ranting about their last solo dreamshare adventure would have held Eames back for a while longer.

 

"Tell Cobb what?" Eames asked, as he advanced toward the diced peppers Mal had been preparing.

 

Mal slapped his hand away. Missing Arthur’s warning look to keep her mouth shut, Mal grinned at Eames and said, "About your and Arthur's decision, of course, what else? It's been a while coming. Though, you guys may consider actually buying a house first, before the baby gets here."

 

Eames had been looking puzzled, not making the connection with what she was talking about until the word  _baby_  popped up. Then, the confusion was replaced by anger at what he assumed to be a confrontation. He rounded on Arthur. "Jesus,  _fuck,_  Arthur."

 

The anger and foul language made Arthur bristle. He stood up from the counter he had been leaning against, bracing himself for the fight. "Don't 'Jesus, fuck' me, Eames," he snarled right back. "I didn't say it was decided."

 

"Why did you say anything at all?" Eames' hand was poised in the air, still holding the peppers that hadn't made it to his mouth. Mal looked from one to the other, then realized her gaffe and quietly disappeared from the room to let them duke it out.

 

"Because it's my fucking right." Arthur didn't swear often, but when he did, his voice was level and hard, unlike Eames, whose voice got louder the angrier he got. But Eames was also prone to shutting himself off when his anger rose too high. Arthur knew the warning signs, and he saw the way his expression shuttered, his eyes slipping away from Arthur's and his shoulders straightening, like he wanted to physically become the wall he was putting up. Arthur quickly shifted gears.

 

"You have to tell me, Eames," he said, softly now, closing the distance between them but not reaching out to Eames yet. "You can't ignore this. I want kids. I have the right to know why you don't want to."

 

Arthur saw some of the tension seeping away, saw the way Eames opened his mouth and then closed as he swallowed, hard. He looked lost. Arthur took a shot.

 

"You're going to make a great father, Eames. You're not going to be like your own parents."

 

Eames' eyes snapped back toward Arthur. The soft look in his eyes moments ago was replaced by a hard, defensive shield. "My parents-" he started, but Arthur cut him off.

 

"Your parents were shitty parents," Arthur snapped, a bit too harshly. "Eames, they're good people," he remembered how nicely they had greeted him into their homes, when they had believed him to be nothing more than Eames' best friend, "but they were crap parents. They were always leaving you alone, working, or going to work parties. You raised yourself, and when you fell into the wrong crowd, they moved to escape the social stigma,  _not_  to help you. They've never tried to reach out to you, Eames. They didn't even come to your goddamn wedding." Arthur didn't even bother to mention the fact that they never called for the holidays, and when they did call for Eames' birthday, they never asked about Arthur. They preferred to ignore his existence, even though they knew full well the nature of their relationship.

 

Eames pursed his lips, refusing to reply or to look at Arthur.

 

"You're going to be a fantastic father because you're not going to give three shits about whether your kid is going to grow up to be straight or a fag. And if they ever get caught in a scrape, you’ll be there to show them how to be stealthier about it the next time, not belittle them for it. You're going to love him, or her, so fucking fiercely because they're going to be a fucking beautiful kid, a great person. And it's going to be thanks to you."

 

"Jesus, fuck, Arthur," Eames finally said, but his voice was broken, thick, and fully convinced.

 

Arthur reached out to Eames, cupping his face, and turned it to look at him. "And if you start acting the least bit like your father, I'll be there to kick your sorry ass back into place, you hear me?"

 

Eames chuckled, though a bit weakly. "You'll be the death of me, Arthur. I fucking swear."

 

Arthur grinned. "Let's have kids?" he asked.

 

Eames didn't reply, just leaned over and kissed Arthur, hard and deep, pulling him closer and holding on so tight Arthur could barely breathe. Arthur didn't mind. This time, the kiss did feel like a promise.

 

**

 

The procedure to getting a surrogacy was long and complicated. State laws varied, and even states that allowed for uncompensated surrogacy were on the fence when it came to gay couples. Eames forged a lot of papers, and expertly avoided Amanda's numerous questions as to how they had managed to acquire so many legal documents so quickly.

 

They finally bought a house. They had been more or less living together ever since the marriage, though sometimes Eames went home after a job before coming to Arthur's. It was a habit they had picked up when dreamshare had still been illegal and dangerous, and it was a hard one to break, even after the threat of being stalked and killed because of a job gone wrong had long ago dissipated. Terminating the lease on both of their places felt weird. Somehow, it made what they were about to do real. The legal papers, Eames jerking off in a cup, Amanda artificially inseminating herself... None of those had fazed Arthur. But knowing that they no longer had the facade, the security, of two separate domiciles to hide behind scared him.

 

The house they found was a definite upgrade from their previous homes. Arthur had lived in a small three-room apartment. Before the legalization of dreamshare, he had never stayed in New York for long periods of time. Eames' place had even been smaller, and had been crammed with books and crap that Eames had accumulated over the years and refused to throw out.

 

The house was modest for people of their means, but they had never been ones to flaunt their wealth and the condominium they finally found was located on a small street, without much traffic, where each house was encircled by arrays of neatly-trimmed shrubs and colorful flowers.

 

For the first time in Arthur's life, he felt like he was living a normal experience. He was married and  _moving in_  with his husband, a concept he had thought of before, but had never really imagined himself actually experiencing. Mal came over and they jokingly looked over baby names they might like, though Amanda had given no news of the insemination having taken yet. Eames and Arthur met their neighbors, who were warm and welcoming, and didn't seem to care that they were two men about to become fathers.

 

Arthur was beginning to feel normal. So, of course, everything had to go wrong.

 

It started with Amanda's call, saying that she was sorry but the pregnancy hadn't taken. "We can try again, Arthur," she said softly, in that apologetic tone she had, like Arthur would burst into tears if she wasn't sweet and gentle. "In a few months, we can try again."

 

Then Mal woke up and started acting strangely. "She's only a bit disoriented," Cobb said. But when Arthur was over and James, more than two and a half years old now, went up to Mal to ask for a cookie and she snapped that sugar was bad for him, Arthur knew that something more was up. Her voice was hard. She spat the words out like acid, and when she looked down on James, Arthur saw that her eyes were just as hard, and just as dangerous.

 

"Bloody fucking idiots," Eames judged when Arthur told him about what he'd seen. "I told them all that dreaming would fuck with their heads."

 

Arthur suggested they sit Mal down and try to talk to her, see what was wrong, but they never got the opportunity to talk to Cobb about it. Arthur's phone rang in the middle of the afternoon.

 

"Mal jumped," Cobb told him in an eerily calm voice. Arthur had been lounging around the house, taking a break from the unpacking to check up on job offers, looking forsomething close to home and low-key. His hand stilled over the keyboard, and his throat was tight, unable to utter a syllable. Cobb went on regardless, his voice smooth and empty, as though he were speaking in a trance. "She said I pushed her to suicide, that I was abusive. She's got-" Cobb's voice broke, and he spent a few seconds recuperating himself. Arthur heard the shaky breathing on the other end. He was already up and getting his suitcase out of the closet before Cobb managed to speak again. "She was judged sane by, fuck, I don't know, a handful of psychiatrists. They're going to take my fucking kids away, Arthur!"

 

Arthur had his suitcase out on his bed, getting the clothes he had already unpacked out of the wardrobe with one hand, throwing them carelessly on the bed. "Cobb, you need to get out of the country before your passport is traced. Get on a plane and go somewhere."

 

"I already got a ticket. I'm packing right now."

 

"Good. Where are you going? I'll meet you there."

 

"Paris. But, Arthur-"

 

"I'm going to buy a ticket now. Don't wait for me at the airport. Get on the fucking plane and if I miss it, we'll meet up at Miles' place. Do you hear me?"

 

"Arthur, you can't just leave."

 

Cobb was trying to put on a brave front, but if Arthur knew his friend at all, he was freaking out. Already the calmness in his voice had been replaced by a tremor which made each word tremble with uncertainty. Speaking about what had happened had made it real, Arthur knew, and by the time Cobb landed in Paris, he would be a mess. Arthur had to be there.

 

"I'll see you in Paris," he said sharply, leaving no room for discussion. He hung up before Cobb could argue.

 

"Who are you going to see in Paris?" Eames asked from the doorway of the bedroom.

 

"Cobb," Arthur said, going back to his packing. "Mal woke, but didn't believe this was reality. She jumped." Arthur stilled in his packing, realizing just how calm he was. He didn't believe it, he realized. Mal couldn't be dead. She was  _Mal_ , for crying out loud.

 

Behind him, Eames was silent. When Arthur turned around, he saw the pain of the news etched on Eames' face. The pain, but not the surprise that Arthur had felt. It was like a punch to the gut. Suddenly, he hated Eames because Eames had known. Surely he must have, he knew all those human subtleties that Arthur always missed. And he hadn't done anything.

 

With a cry of outrage, Arthur picked up his suitcase and threw it on the floor, the few clothes he'd folded falling harmlessly onto the floor. He wanted to cry, to punch something, to hurt someone. Mal had been his best friend, like a second sister. But he felt empty, no tears threatened to fall, and instead of thrashing his room, he picked up his suitcase and resumed his packing.

 

Eames watched Arthur pack in silence, but it wasn't until Arthur went to leave that Eames barred his way.

 

"You can't go."

 

"Fuck you," Arthur spat. "Mal just jumped and Cobb is a wanted criminal. He's going to fall apart. I need to be with him."

 

"You need to be here, Arthur."

 

"What for? The pregnancy didn't take, and you don't need me to look after you."

 

Eames pursed his lips. "Do you really think you'll be able to have kids after this? After your name is put beside Cobb's, and you're barred from the states?"

 

That gave Arthur a pause. He hadn't thought about that, in his paroxysm to go after Cobb. He hesitated, not for long, but he hesitated. "I need to do this, Eames. Nothing else matters, right now. We can deal with that later."

 

Eames watched him carefully, then he pulled Arthur into a fierce hug and kissed him. "Don't let that idiot do any more stupid things. I'll do my best to keep Amanda from finding out."

 

Arthur wanted to cry, then. He really wanted to cling to Eames and sob, for the friend he had lost forever and the dreams he had been so close to achieving that he was giving up on. He let himself be comforted for a few seconds, then he pulled back, face hard and eyes stinging with tears he was holding back.

 

"Thanks," he said. "I'll call you as soon as it's safe."

 

Eames nodded, and Arthur went after Cobb, feeling like a true outlaw for the first time in his life.

 

 

Arthur accepted the Cobol job for a variety of reasons, but the predominant reason was the plain fact that Cobb needed a distraction. He'd spent the first weeks in France crying and yelling and thrashing their hotel room, and Arthur knew that he was on the verge of losing it himself and possibly killing Cobb if something wasn't done about the situation.

 

The brilliant 'something' that popped up was Nash. Nash had been one of the many in the dreamshare community who hadn't adhered to the legalization of dreamshare, and had gone abroad to keep doing the dirty, illegal jobs. Arthur hadn't spoken to him in a good few months, but he'd gotten the memo about Mal's death and sought them out. To be fair, the only reason he had been able to find them was because Arthur had let themselves be found. He had left hints to his partners in dreamshare, so he could be contacted if some jobs popped up and they were in need of one.

 

The Cobol job Nash offered them was ridiculously well paid because it was stupidly dangerous. It required long hours of work and no distractions. It was exactly what Cobb needed. Arthur didn't entertain the notion that they would fuck up. Sure, it was a hard, dangerous job, but it wasn't anything they had never done before, and Cobb threw himself into the job with a fervor that only a man who had lost his wife due to insanity and children due to exile could possess.

 

Of course, in the end, Nash was the one who fucked up when he couldn't even be thorough enough to get the carpet fabric right and Saito realized he was still dreaming.

 

Honestly, having a bounty on their heads for the fucked up job did not help their situation in the least, considering they were wanted criminals who were most likely on Interpol's radar. Arthur was only beginning to think of how many years they would have to lay low before they could walk the streets of a major city without being shot at by one of Cobol's goons when a helicopter pulled up and Saito asked them to run a fucking inception job on Fischer Morrow.

 

Of course, Cobb said yes.

 

**

 

When Cobb left to find Eames, Arthur took out his cellphone reserved for the States and turned it on. He hadn't used it in a few months, the risk being too high, and he preferred to communicate with Eames by mail, since it was a tad more secure. But he had to warn Eames of Cobb's arrival, and he knew Eames was most likely to reach him first by text than by e-mail.

 

His phone vibrated for thirty seconds straight after he turned it on. He stared dumbly at his screen, fifteen missed calls and another three dozen texts in the last two weeks, all from Amanda.

 

The texts all read the same thing ' _Call me,'_  though some of the recent ones expressed more worry at Arthur's silence, wondering if he was okay, saying that she couldn't get a hold of Eames either, who had fucked off to Mombasa and hadn't been returning any of her messages either.

 

Panic clawed at Arthur's throat. Had Amanda gotten hurt? He forced himself to remain calm. He had other priorities, and Amanda had already been waiting to hear from him for weeks, she could wait another few hours.

 

He texted Eames first.  _Say no to Cobb._  Simple, and probably a little cryptic, but he couldn't afford to be explicit through a text.

 

He bought a pre-paid phone to call Amanda, though he realized that if her phone was being tapped, it made very little difference. Amanda answered on the third ring.

 

"It's me," Arthur said, and then had to pull the phone away from his ear as Amanda screeched into the mouthpiece.

 

"You  _fucker_ ," she screamed. "Where have you been? I've been trying to reach you for ages! I was so fucking worried!"

 

"I'm sorry, I've been busy," Arthur said, though he realized it was a poor excuse. He couldn't exactly give her the truth, now could he? "I can't stay long, though, what's up?"

 

"What's up? What's  _up_?" Amanda laughed, and Arthur was surprised that it was a genuine, excited laugh. Definitely not one he had been expecting, given the circumstances. What she said next explained it all, and he felt like his chest had been ripped open and emptied out. "I'm pregnant is what's up! Three months along. It's yours- I mean, it's Eames'. You're going to be a daddy, Arthur!" She laughed again, but Arthur wanted to cry. This wasn't happening. It couldn't be happening, not when he was about to face the most dangerous job of his career and the chances of him not coming back out were close to a hundred percent.

 

"W-what?" He swallowed thickly and tried again. "How is that even possible? You didn't get pregnant, you told me so..."

 

Amanda was so excited that Arthur's hollow tone didn't even register, not at first. "I never told you, but Brad and I had a lot of trouble getting pregnant as well. So, we kind of froze some of Eames', well, you know, and I tried again. It took. I didn't want to tell you sooner. The first trimester is always iffy, especially since I had a miscarriage my first time. I didn't want to give you guys false hope. But, it's basically for sure now. Aren't you excited? When are you coming back?"

 

Arthur's chest was wide open, raw and bleeding. He had to sit down, and he only realized once he'd collapsed in a chair that he was gripping the phone so tightly he was surprised it hadn't crushed in his fist yet. "I-I don't know," he whispered, thinking of the baby he'd given up on. Thinking of the kids Cobb had left behind. Thinking how they both may never see them.

 

Amanda sobered. "Are you okay, Arthur? You sound really weird."

 

"I'm just tired," he lied quickly, and he knew Amanda would mistake the dread in his voice for fatigue. She had no other reason to believe otherwise. "Listen, I'm really swamped right now, so I have to go. I'll call you as soon as I can. I'll try to get in touch with Eames."

 

"I love you. Get home quickly."

 

"I love you too." The words stuck in Arthur's throat, as they had never been so true. "I'll try. I swear, I will."

 

He hung up wishing he could call Eames to tell him. It was the only way to convince him to refuse Cobb. But he couldn't risk the call. Amanda may have been safe, but there were too many eyes on Eames. Cobb going to Mombasa had already been enough folly as it was.

 

Arthur just had to pray that Eames would be wise enough to heed Arthur's first warning and refuse Cobb.

 

Of course, he didn't.

 

**

 

Arthur pulled Eames aside the second it was safe to do so. The new girl, Ariadne, had sharp eyes that missed very little. They had just met, and already Arthur could tell that she had some uncanny ability to read people, like Eames could. Thankfully, she seemed to have been struck by Cobb and gave him much more attention, which allowed Arthur to slip off into an empty room with Eames.

 

"Are you mentally retarded or something?" Arthur hissed. He wanted to yell, to punch Eames in his stupid face, but that would attract the attention of the others and he couldn't let them know, Cobb least of all, that there was going to be tension between them. "I told you to refuse Cobb."

 

"Are  _you_  mentally retarded?" Eames snarled right back. "This is fucking Inception, Arthur. I wasn't about to sit back and twiddle my thumbs while you went off and got yourself killed."

 

"You should be back in the states looking after Amanda."

 

"Oh, please," Eames rolled his eyes. "Amanda is a grown woman, Arthur. No one's gone after her so far, so I doubt they will."

 

"Cobol-"

 

"-probably don't even know she's related to you, if I know you at all."

 

Arthur sucked on his teeth. Eames would be singing a different tune if he knew Amanda was pregnant with their child. The words were on the tip of his tongue, but he stalled. What good could come of the news? Eames would never leave without Arthur, and what would Arthur say to Cobb? ' _I know I promised to look after you, but I have a kid of my own now, so screw you, get back to yours by yourself?'_  Somehow, he couldn't see himself delivering that blow to his best friend.

 

No, it wasn't the right time for the news. He would tell Eames after, when they had finished Inception. If the job became a liability, he could always shoot Eames out of it, or himself, or both. They could deal with the bounties on their heads then: a bounty was always easier to deal with than actually being dead.

 

He heaved a sigh. "Okay, fine. We'll do this, and then we'll go home, all right? All of us."

 

Eames smirked. "We're going to make history, Arthur."

 

Arthur returned the smile, though his heart didn't feel up to it. "What, you mean again?"

 

**

 

The planning of inception was exhilarating. It had been a while since Arthur had worked a job demanding so much competence and energy, the Cobol job exempted since he had had to work with Nash, and that factor alone had put a damper on what could have been an interesting and successful job.

 

The fact that he was working with Eames only added to the appeal of the job. Although Eames took great pleasure in being an infuriating jerk in front of everyone, behind the scenes they had amazing, hungry sex like they hadn't had in years. It wasn't as though their sex drive had diminished over the years, but there was something about knowing that this could be the end of the road which just spiked up the hormones and let loose on the pheromones. Soon, Eames' childish jabs, such as laughing meanly whenever Yusuf pushed Arthur off his chair (when testing the drug) or tipping Arthur's chair (to 'demonstrate' to Ariadne what a kick was) became their own sort of foreplay.

 

When it came time to run the job, Arthur was as confident in their plan as he was ever going to get, considering the volatile experiment they were running. He tried to not think too much of his unborn child, and especially not about Eames' reaction once he finally told him, as he boarded the plane. He tried to convince himself that the job would go well. The job  _had_ to go well.

 

The job went to shit quickly. The freight train and the militarized mind, Arthur could have dealt with that. He knew he'd fucked up and there was no excuse for it, but so had Cobb. This paled in comparison to the news that followed.

 

"Limbo?" he echoed dumbly, as Eames stomped off in a fury. Arthur's head spun. This was it, there was no shooting themselves out if things got too dangerous. They either succeeded or… Well, death would have been a more merciful alternative to the mind-fuck that was limbo.

 

Cobb snapped at Eames not to be ridiculous. If he stayed here, then limbo was a certainty instead of a risk. Arthur stumbled toward Eames, grabbed him arm, and pulled him to the side. It was the worst timing ever. He knew now that he should have told Eames before they'd gone under. Arthur knew he was cursed, had known it ever since childhood, ever since adolescence. When was he ever going to learn his lesson?

 

"Amanda's pregnant," he blurted. Somewhere in the distance, the others were preparing their guns. Fischer's army would arrive any second. Cobb was looking their way, but he couldn't hear what they were saying from this distance, and more likely he believed they were just having it out about him.

 

"What?" Eames was frowning at him, not understanding. "No, she's not."

 

"Yes, she is. Three months along. She told me right before... right before you arrived for Inception. I-it's yours, Eames. It's ours."

 

Arthur wasn't expecting a celebration hug or a shout of joy, not under these circumstances. But the way Eames hardened himself, the look of pure anger that took over his shocked, disbelieving expression slapped Arthur in the face. Arthur knew he deserved it, but he saw hate in the downturned corner of Eames' mouth, and that hurt more than anything.

 

"Eames..." He reached out to him, but Eames stepped away, turned around, and left Arthur standing there without so much as a word.

 

There was no time to run after him, no time to talk about their feelings and especially no time to grovel, because Fischer's subconscious soldiers were pounding at the doors of the warehouse and Arthur had to pull himself together. He'd already made too many mistakes today - one could cost them the job, and the second could him his marriage. He couldn’t lose his child, as well. He had to push all thoughts to the back of his mind and continue on the job as though nothing was amiss.

 

They had a job to pull off.

 

**

 

Waking up in the airplane, unharmed other than from the mental pain of wondering if Cobb would ever wake up, was nothing short of a miracle. His eyes immediately sought out Eames, and the smile they shared was a momentary lapse filled with relief and amazement. They had survived an inception job. Whether the fruits of their labor would hold up after Fischer left the plane and reentered the real world remained to be seen, but the moment, it was all trivial. They had survived, and for the next few hours, that was all that mattered.

 

Arthur breathed a sigh of relief when Saito and Cobb woke up, but the tension between his shoulders kept mounting as they approached the states. Eames wouldn't meet his eyes anymore, and Arthur was scared of what he would say once they had landed.

 

They had no problem at customs. Arthur held his breath as Cobb stepped up to the guard and handed him the passport, but the man glanced at it, then back up at Cobb, scanned the passport, read something on his screen, and let him pass. It took even less time with Arthur, other than a few basic and customary questions, and then they were on the other side, on American territory, and the relief he felt was so profound that one would have thought he hadn't been in the states in decades, rather than a few weeks short of half a year.

 

As customary after a big job, they didn't communicate. Normally, they weren't even supposed to stand beside each other, but Arthur wasn't about to let Eames out of his sight. He followed him quietly, walking a few paces behind, passing as a stranger, but when Eames hailed a cab, he didn't close the door behind him, allowing Arthur to slip in quickly.

 

They ordered two separate rooms at the hotel, to be safe, but Arthur followed Eames up to his.

 

The only noise in the room when the door had closed was the loud whirring of the air conditioner in the corner. Eames dropped his carry-on duffel bag on the bed and turned to face Arthur, mouth a firm line. He looked tired, and for that, Arthur was thankful. A tired Eames, he knew how to deal with.

 

Still, he wasn't about to be the first to speak. That wasn't his right.

 

"I was never scared of turning out like my parents," Eames finally began, voice sounding as tired as he appeared to be. "I just let you believe that because it was easier than what I was actually scared of. I was scared of us, Arthur. We're not normal, and I don't think we have been for a long time - if ever, in your case," he scoffed, humorlessly.

 

"What are you saying?"

 

"I'm saying I can't end up like that fucking twat Cobb. Looking at the shit he and Mal put their kids through. Having their mother commit suicide and their father flee the country the very next day. Is that the bullshit you want to put our kid through, Arthur?"

 

"We're not like Cobb and Mal," Arthur pleaded, because he couldn't tell what Eames was getting at, and it was killing him.

 

"Aren't we?" It wasn't a question. "I can't go back to helping old fucks get off to their wet dreams feeling as good as real. Can you?"

 

Arthur thought of the drag of the jobs back home, how he only took them on so he wouldn't fall out of the game. All he had thought of when he'd been at work was the old jobs, his glory days. After Inception, he didn't know if he could ever talk himself into accepting such a boring fate, as he once had. "No," he admitted.

 

"Kids don't belong in dreamshare."

 

"How can you say that?" The shout escaped Arthur without a moment's thought. He was almost as surprised to hear himself say it as he was at the volume he said it at. The words echoed loudly in his ear. "Amanda is already fucking pregnant. I can't just tell her to  _abort_  the pregnancy. She's more than four months along by now."

 

"Oh, Arthur. With our abilities, it's never too late." His smile was sardonic. We have to make a choice," Eames told him, "a choice we should have made back before we decided to have the kid. Which do we want more, a child, or the life we have now?"

 

It took Arthur several seconds to remember how to breathe. "W-what? Well, isn't it obvious?"

 

"Is it? Maybe for you." Eames dragged a hand through his hair and dropped it, exasperated, and then delivered the final blow. "I'm not so sure myself."

 

Arthur lost it. "I cannot believe you are backing out," he yelled so loud he was sure he was tearing the flesh from his throat from pure volume alone, "when your sperm has already turned into a fucking fetus in my sister's fucking uterus!"

 

His vision was spinning from anger. He wished they were in dreamshare so he could dream up the biggest gun he could possibly imagine and blow Eames' fucking head off. As it was, he settled with grabbing the closest hard item to him, the remote control, and hurling it at Eames' face as hard as he could.

 

Eames didn't try to dodge it, and the remote connected with his nose so hard Arthur was sure he'd broken it. ' _Good,'_  he thought without a hint of satisfaction as he picked his bag up off the floor, ' _I hope it hurt_.'

 

He let the door slam behind him.

 

 

The baby was tiny in his arms. Arthur was scared of dropping him, but also scared that if he held on too tightly, he was going to hurt it in some way. The notion that terrified him the most, though, was the knowledge that the baby was his from here on now to take care of.

 

"He's beautiful," Amanda whispered from her hospital bed. It had been a twenty-hour labor, and Amanda was disheveled and exhausted. She had been sleeping when Arthur had entered the room, but his steps must have woken her.

 

Arthur smiled down at her. "How are you feeling?" It felt like the right thing to say, though she looked like hell and probably felt like it too. Just the thought of labor made Arthur wince. He had been tortured in his days, but even so, he knew it had to be a whole different kind of pain. At least he'd always had the knowledge of knowing that he would awake without any pain. Well, all but once.

 

"I can't believe you're asking me that," Amanda laughed weakly. "Have you thought of a name yet?"

 

Arthur chewed on his lip. He'd done more than his fair share of reading up on how to be a parent since he'd gotten back home after the inception job. Somehow, though, he had always put off that part. It hadn't felt right, choosing by himself. Even after everything.

 

Amanda read his mind. "No Eames?" she asked, tentatively, though Arthur was past the stage where his name felt like reliving the betrayal all over again. When he refused to reply, Amanda pushed herself up into a sitting position. "Arthur, what the hell happened in Europe?"

 

Amanda didn't know the details of the whole exchange. Arthur hadn't had the heart to tell her how Eames had backed off, still pumped on the edge of adrenaline from the job, wanting to relive the moment over and over again. Arthur knew that was what it had been, because he had felt it too. But he'd known of what was waiting back home, and he had wanted that more than anything. He supposed Eames' conviction had been a little more trepid than his.

 

"Nothing. He just had a little crisis of faith, or maybe a relapse." Arthur frowned. "Could go both ways, I suppose, depending on the angle taken to look at the situation." Amanda frowned, obviously not understanding, but that was okay. Arthur smiled down at his son. "He'll be back." He said it more to the baby than to Amanda.

 

Arthur didn't know if it made him weak or pathetic or an idiot or a perfect combination of the three, but he was waiting for Eames. No matter what, the day Eames would come knocking at their door, Arthur would accept him back. The tiny fingers closed around Arthur's finger; he had long, lean fingers, and the baby's fist managed to close around one of his, just barely. Arthur smiled. He knew that when Eames came back, those fingers wouldn’t be able to fit around Eames' fat ones. The thought made him laugh, because he knew Eames would come back. Maybe a year, maybe two, but he'd definitely be back.

 

And what was time to Arthur? He'd spent more than half of his life manipulating it and reliving it time and time again.

 

He rocked the baby in his arms, smiling. "Yeah. Daddy'll be back."

 

 


End file.
